THE  GREATER 
MYSTERY 


BY 

EDNA  DE  FREMERY 

WITH   FRONTISPIECE  ILLUSTRATION 
BY  THE  AUTHOR 


SAN  FRANCISCO 

Sunset  }Dress 
1920 


COPYRIGHT 

I92O 
EDNA  DE   FREMERY 


O3/t 


DEDICATED  TO  MY  MOTHER 


43870^ 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 

"Love  is  a  greater  mystery  than  death" 

CHAPTER  I 

Viola  Mordaunt  remembered  distinctly  the  first 
time  in  her  life  that  she  was  conscious  of  jealousy. 
It  was  in  the  day  nursery  at  Haddon  Court,  one 
November  afternoon,  and  she  and  her  cousins, 
Pamela  and  Anne,  had  dressed  their  cats,  named 
respectively  "Bubble"  and  "Squeak,"  in  doll's 
clothes. 

"You  be  Mrs.  Hatch  in  the  village  and  'Bubble' 
can  be  your  baby  child;  'Squeak'  will  be  mine,  and 
Robert's,"  Pamela  indicated  her  small  brother,  who 
was  anxious  to  be  included  at  all  costs,  "can  be  the 
Vicar's  wife  and  bring  us  sweets  and  flannel." 

Viola  had  shrunk  from  the  prospective  joys  of 
motherhood,  and  had  turned  her  back  on  the 
beneficence  of  the  clergy.  Looking  out  of  the 
window,  she  saw,  over  the  burnished  tops  of  the 
maples,  a  gray  autumnal  sky  tinted  with  rose. 
The  far  distance,  the  delicate  and  illuminated 
perspective  moved  her  to  emotion  that  she  could 
not  express.  "Let's  play  that  'Bubble'  and 
'Squeak'  are  enchanted  princesses  and  that,  if  we 
touch  them  with  a  fairy  wand,  they'll  have  wings 
and  be  free  and  then  we  can  fly  with  them  away 
into  the  Sunset."  Stretching  her  arms  out,  Viola 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 

moved  them  up  and  down.  She  had  felt  herself 
flying  out  into  the  soft  gray  clouds. 

Pamela  and  Robert  laughed  and  Anne  looking 
vaguely  disturbed  had  said. 

"Don't  be  so  queer  Viola,  if  we  are  good  we 
are  to  go  down  for  tea  and  see  Uncle  Henry 
Gaunt.  You  had  much  better  be  Mrs.  Hatch. 
See,  the  babies  are  beautiful — I'll  let  you  have 
twins."  But  Viola  was  not  appeased. 

"Don't  you  ever  want  to  play  a  real  pretend 
about  some  place  you've  never  seen?  I'm  so 
tired  of  being  a  mother!" 

Anne  gathered  up  Bubble  and  Squeak  with 
tenderness."  What  else  is  there  for  us  to  be,  but 
mothers?  I'm  sure  I  don't  want  to  go  to  some 
place  I've  never  seen — do  you,  Pamela?" 

With  an  air  of  great  propriety,  Anne  had  stepped 
forward,  come  under  Melon's  brush  for  a  few 
vigorous  moments,  and  then,  settling  her  sash 
carefully  about  her  fat  little  person,  had  taken 
Pamela's  hand,  and  the  two  sisters  had  gone  down 
the  great  stairway,  to  the  dim  hall,  without  a 
glance  behind  them  at  the  follower  of  strange  gods. 
Robert,  after  the  manner  of  his  kind,  followed  the 
two  decorous  and  conventional  ladies;  and  Viola, 
left  alone  with  an  angry  Melon,  gave  way  to 
violence. 

"It's  never  my  way — they  never  do  what  I  want 
— and  their  games  are  so  dull — ': 

"Now,  that  will  do — just  get  up  from  the  floor." 
A  hand  assisted  her.  "Here,  I  had  you  all  clean — 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


and  now- — look  at  your  frock !  It's  the  third  to-day 
— you'll  not  go  down.  Let  that  be  a  lesson  to  you." 

As  Melon  made  these,  no  doubt,  just  remarks,  a 
strange  feeling  had  come  to  Viola.  There  had  been 
twinges  of  the  same  thing  before,  when  Anne  and 
Pamela  had  been  selected  for  favors  or  privileges 
that  had  not  been  extended  to  her;  but  as  she  had 
established  a  bad  character  for  herself  with  the 
nurses,  Viola  had  before  this  accepted  her  lot  with 
the  thought  that  it  was  more  or  less  deserved. 
But  on  this  occasion  the  punishment  did  not  fit  the 
crime.  Because  Anne  and  Pamela  were  too  stupid 
to  understand  her  games  she  must  always  suffer. 

As  she  wept  ignobly  on  the  nursery  linoleum,  an 
unchildish  resolution  came  to  her.  If  she  had  to 
suffer,  she  would  suffer  all  she  possibly  could. 
Getting  up  quickly  and  silently,  Viola  crept  down 
the  broad  stairs,  gaining  the  shadow  of  the  lower 
hall,  and  installed  herself  behind  the  armour  of  a 
certain  Henry  Cecil  Berrold  Mordaunt,  who  fell  at 
Flodden.  Looking  from  behind  this  kindly  shelter, 
she  could,  like  the  peri  at  the  gates  of  paradise,  see 
the  fortunate  occupants  of  the  drawing-room. 
Lady  Mordaunt  and  Uncle  Henry  Gaunt  were 
seated  comfortably  before  a  bright  fire.  The  tea- 
table  was  drawn  up  to  them,  and  its  bounties  were 
being  dispensed  lavishly  to  Pamela  and  Anne, 
whose  small  features  had  assumed  unnaturally 
virtuous  expressions.  Robert  was  standing  by 
his  Uncle,  evidently  giving  respectful  answers 
to  some  searching  questions,  for  Viola  heard 

[3] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


Lady  Mordaunt's  high  clear  voice  say,  in  a 
satisfied  tone: 

"Well,  Henry,  they're  looking  rather  fit,  don't 
you  think?" 

"Splendid,  my  dear  Adela — I  only  wish  I  could 
say  as  much  for  Harold.  The  boy  is  seedy — he 
reads  too  much — I  shall  have  to  lend  him  to  you; 
you  have  the  magic  touch."  Sir  Henry  had 
sighed  and  his  kind  face  had  looked  quite  grave. 

"Robert,  here  is  something  for  you,  old  fellow, 
and  two  packages,  for  the  girls.  Will  you  give 
them  to  Anne  and  Pamela  for  me?  And  here  is 
another.  Why — by  Jove,  where's  Viola?  Here's 
her  surprise — and  I  haven't  seen  the  child!" 

Lady  Mordaunt  turned  to  Pamela,  "Where  is 
Vi,  dear?" 

"She's  in  the  nursery,  Mother.  She  was  quite 
naughty — and  Melon  said  she  was  not  to  come 
down." 

The  armour  of  Henry  Cecil  Berrold  creaked  omi 
nously  from  undue  pressure  brought  to  bear  on  it. 

"Oh,  come,"  interrupted  Sir  Henry,  "don't  tell 
me — just  take  this  up  to  Viola,  with  my  love,  will 
you?" 

And  Pamela,  looking  a  little  disappointed,  had 
made  her  curtsey  and  devoirs  with  punctilio,  and 
departed  upstairs,  Robert  and  Anne  following  her. 
But  Viola,  fairly  launched  in  crime,  had  stayed 
where  she  was. 

In  after  years  the  memory  of  that  room  with  its 
outlook  through  French  windows  on  a  green  and 

[4] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


rolling  lawn,  shaded  by  the  rich  autumnal  foliage 
of  the  copper  beeches,  would  come  to  Viola  with 
the  startling  clearness  of  a  cry.  She  would  see  the 
firelight  flickering  over  the  polished  floor,  picking 
out  bright  spots  on  the  dark  carved  furniture, 
throwing  strange  shadows  on  the  faces  of  the  man 
and  woman  seated  before  it. 

Sir  Henry  had  spoken  first,  after  the  children  had 
left,  and  his  voice  had  sounded  like  a  stranger's  to 
Viola. 

"Tell  me,  Adela,  is  she  like- 

"Like  the  Mordaunts,  Henry?    No,  not  at  all." 

"Like  her  mother?"  His  voice  was  anxious, 
yet  determined  too. 

"In  looks,  almost  exactly,"  Lady  Adela  had 
answered,  in  a  lowered  tone — unlike  any  that 
Viola  had  ever  heard  her  use.  Even  to  the  child 
there  seemed  something  furtive  in  it. 

"You  know  I  only  saw  her  once — but  one 
wouldn't  forget,  even  if  they  had  no  such  reason 
as  we  have  for  remembering.  The  dark  hair,  the 
eyes,  the  features,  the  foreign  look — yes — Viola 
will  be  beautiful.  She  puts  my  girls  to  shame, 
now." 

"Poor  little  soul,"  said  Sir  Henry.  "Is  she  like 
any  child — or  is  she — odd?" 

"She's  fanciful — imaginative — I  see  Gerald  in 
her — in  that — It's  very  complicated,  you  know — " 
Lady  Adela  sighed. 

The  butler  came  in  with  lights  and  took  away 
the  tea  things;  and  Viola,  stiff  from  her  cramped 

[5] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


position,  slipped  upstairs  like  a  small  shadow. 
Once  in  her  bed,  in  the  dark,  she  had  buried  her 
face  in  a  pillow  and  cried  with  desperate  abandon, 
saying  over  and  over  to  herself,  between  her  sobs, 
"My  Mother — my  Mother — my  Mother." 

After  that  night,  Viola  had  always  a  com 
panion,  and  her  imaginative  life,  where  her  mother 
met  her,  became  far  more  real  to  the  child  than  her 
actual  existence  at  Thorley.  This  incorporeal 
parent  was  invested  with  supernatural  charms  and 
became  her  child's  champion  for  every  real  or 
fancied  wrong. 

Viola  never  spoke  of  the  life  she  had  created  for 
herself  out  of  her  discovery,  nor  did  she  ask  to 
know  more  than  she  had  overheard.  As  the  years 
passed,  this  separate  and  secret  life  of  Viola's  left 
it's  impression  on  her.  Beside  the  pretty  pink  and 
whiteness  of  Pamela,  and  the  engaging  young 
strength  of  Anne,  Viola's  delicate  beauty  glowed 
like  some  exotic,  strangely  and  inappropriately 
blooming  with  hardy  garden  flowers. 

When  she  was  nineteen  years  old,  and  just 
before  she  had  gone  up  to  London  to  be  presented, 
Lady  Adela,  who  was  then  widowed,  had  sent  for 
Viola,  and  with  every  effort  to  spare  the  girl  all  she 
could,  told  her  what  it  was  necessary  for  her  to 
know. 

Viola's  father,  Gerald  Mordaunt,  younger 
brother  of  Lady  Adela's  husband,  had  been  an 
exceedingly  brilliant,  but  impulsive  young  man. 
In  his  twenty-ninth  year  he  had  gone  to  Paris  as 

[6] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


under  secretary  to  the  British  Ambassador.  He 
had  his  foot  firmly  placed  on  the  ladder  to  success, 
when  he  had  seen,  and  fallen  violently  in  love  with 
Julie  de  Beaujour,  the  young  and  exquisitely 
beautiful  wife  of  Pierre  de  Beaujour,  a  delightful 
man  and  member  of  the  Diplomatic  Service. 
What  efforts  the  two  ill-fated  lovers  had  made  to 
keep  to  the  path  of  virtue  were  never  known,  as 
de  Beaujour,  finding  that  his  wife  no  longer  cared 
for  him,  took  a  terrible  revenge,  and  shot  himself 
dead  in  her  presence.  All  Paris  had  rung  with  the 
scandal,  and  Julie  and  Mordaunt,  like  two  crazed 
creatures,  had  been  married  at  a  registrar's  and 
flown  to  Russia,  where  they  had  known  dreadful 
poverty,  and  where  Viola  had  been  born.  At  her 
birth  Julie  had  died,  and  Gerald,  in  despair  had 
appealed  to  his  brother.  On  condition  that  Gerald 
make  no  future  claim  to  his  daughter,  Mordaunt 
had  consented  to  take  the  tiny  thing. 

At  news  of  his  brother's  death  several  years 
later,  Lord  Mordaunt  had  been  very  much 
relieved.  Lady  Adela  trusted  to  the  girl's  sweet 
ness  and  the  excellent  bringing  up  Viola  had  been 
given  to  secure  a  happy  life  for  her,  though  her 
aunt  knew  no  more  of  Viola's  real  nature  than  she 
did  of  the  Shah  of  Persia's.  Lady  Adela  very  truly 
had  done  the  best  she  could  for  the  child. 

"My  dear,"  she  had  concluded,  putting  her 
hand  on  Viola's  shoulder  and  looking  at  her 
tenderly  with  her  light  and  sincere  eyes,  "don't  let 
this  preposterous  melodrama  bowl  you  over. 

[7] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


Remember  that  it  was  all  done  with  sixteen  years 
ago,  and  that  you  are,  and  always  will  be,  one  of 
my  chicks.  I  count  myself  very  lucky  to  have 
three  daughters  to  take  up  to  London.  Suppose 
you  ring  now  for  Parkman,  and  order  some  Vichy 
and  lemon?" 

Viola  rang,  and  then,  going  to  her  aunt,  kissed 
her  with  very  real  affection  and  gratitude.  In  the 
little  action,  charming,  and  yet  perfectly  re 
strained,  there  was  nothing  of  surprise.  Viola  had 
felt  since  her  childhood,  as  many  clever  children 
do,  that  there  was  something  remarkable  about 
her  parentage,  and  she  had  been  justified  in  that 
thought  by  what  she  had  overheard  Sir  Henry  and 
Lady  Adela  say  to  each  other.  For  many  years 
that  almost  whispered  conversation  had  brought  a 
mysterious  and  cherished  figure,  clothed  in 
romance,  to  Viola;  and  as  she  had  grown  up,  she 
had  felt  no  curiosity  to  substitute  facts  for  the 
flower  of  her  own  fancy.  As  Lady  Adela  told  the 
brief  history  hurriedly,  the  girl's  mind  caught  the 
salient  points  of  youth,  and  love,  and  beauty, 
rising  like  a  flame  from  the  darkened  embers  of 
tragedy — and  she  felt  that  her  young  parents  had 
triumphed.  Of  the  shadow  of  dishonor  that  had 
hidden  them  from  her,  until  now,  she  gave  no 
thought. 

"Was  my  father  handsome,  Aunt  Adela?"  she 
asked,  shyly,  over  her  glass  of  Vichy. 

"What,  my  dear?  Oh — yes — very,"  Lady 
Adela  answered,  uncomfortably.  She  was  suffering 

[8] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


from  being  screwed  up  for  a  scene  that  had  not 
come  off;  and  was  now  frankly  distressed  at  dis 
cussing  such  a  man  as  Gerald  Mordaunt  had  been, 
with  his  young  daughter. 

"Was  he?    and  my  mother?" 

Lady  Adela  made  a  last  effort.  "Your  mother, 
Viola,  was  so  lovely — that — that  really — it  was  not 
right — it  was  hardly  respectable.  People — fol 
lowed  her — turned  to  look,  in  theaters.  I  myself 
only  saw  her  once  and  that  was  at  the  Opera  in 
Paris.  She  seemed  really  unconscious  of  the  way 
people  stared — I  suppose  she  was  used  to  it.  She 
sat  a  little  in  back  of  us,  and  both  your  uncle  and 
I  suffered  from  wry  neck  for  several  days  after 
ward.  If  you  are  not  careful  you  will  be  very  like 
her." 

"Really^  Aunt  Adela — why,  how  heavenly!" 

"That,  my  child,  remains  to  be  seen.  At  any 
rate,  your  character  is  your  own,  and  will  have 
more  to  do  with  your  chances  of  heaven  than  your 
face." 

And  Lady  Mordaunt,  infinitely  relieved  that  her 
task  was  done,  took  up  her  keys  and  departed  to 
the  store-room. 

But  something  sang  in  Viola's  heart  with  the 
glad  voice  that  might  come  from  the  figure  of 
Hope  that  is  blindfolded. 


[9] 


CHAPTER  II 

There  was  a  figure  in  society  when  Viola  and  her 
cousins  went  up  to  London  that  was  surrounded  by 
the  prestige  of  fear.  The  behavior  of  this  man  had 
kept  members  of  the  smart  set  refreshed  with 
anecdote,  and  quivering  with  expectation.  Clever 
women  angled  for  him  to  attend  their  parties,  with 
varied  success,  and  men  in  their  clubs  sought  him 
out.  And  they  did  this  simply  to  hear  what  he 
would  say  to  them — to  draw  down  some  fresh  and 
remarkable  sarcasm. 

Andrew  Ian  Mclvor  was  the  name  of  this  man, 
and  he  had  come  down  from  the  fastness  of  his 
native  stronghold  in  Wales  like  a  wolf  on  the  fold. 
He  was  forty  years  of  age  and  filled  with  an  over 
whelming  sincerity  which  Londoners  took  for 
everything  but  what  it  was.  In  their  eyes  he  was 
endowed  with  the  uncanny  gift  of  clairvoyance. 
Aside  from  his  conversational  powers,  he  was  un 
married,  possessed  of  some  twenty  thousand  a 
year,  estates  in  Wales  and  Sussex,  and  a  town 
house  in  London.  This  last,  a  gloomy  Tudor 
mansion,  was  left  by  Mclvor  as  he  found  it — in  a 
remote  and  hideous  period  of  walnut.  Some  really 
splendid  family  portraits  by  Romney  and  Rey 
nolds,  in  their  happiest  manner,  were  the  only 
spots  of  beauty  in  the  place.  One,  the  portrait  of  a 

[10] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


dissenting  minister  at  the  time  of  John  Knox,  was 
very  like  the  present  owner.  The  same  tall, 
angular  figure,  the  dark  head  with  its  narrow  brow 
and  deep  set  burning  eyes,  the  high  nose  and  the 
thin  austerity  of  the  lips,  were  almost  absurdly 
like  his  descendants;  with  one  difference,  where  the 
artist  had  covered  his  subject's  hands  by  the  folds 
of  the  gown,  Mclvor  might  have  placed  his  without 
dread  of  comparison  beside  the  molded  perfection 
of  an  Apollo.  Fine  in  line,  beautiful  in  proportion, 
with  a  look  of  strength  and  delicacy  combined, 
Mclvor's  hands  seemed  a  gracious  protest  of  nature 
against  the  harshness  of  his  physical  equipment. 
On  a  windy  morning  in  November,  Mclvor  sat 
in  his  ugly  breakfast  room  looking  over  his  mail. 
Out  of  the  mass  he  extracted  a  letter  at  random, 
which  proved  to  be  a  wail  of  reproach  from  an 
"improved"  tenant  on  the  Sussex  property.  At 
the  cost  of  much  personal  trouble  and  no  little 
expense  Mclvor  had  gone  over  the  village  with 
care,  substituting  tiles  for  the  disreputable  but 
picturesque  thatches,  draining  the  roads  and 
lanes,  and  installing  modern  plumbing.  By  these 
benefactions  he  had  called  down,  not  blessings, 
but  curses  on  his  head,  this  morning's  corre 
spondent  alluding  darkly  to  a  right  of  way  that 
had  been  ignored  by  the  new  model  gymnasium 
Mclvor  had  presented  to  the  village.  The  law  was 
invoked  and  threats  of  "proceedings"  dotted  the 
angry  letter.  Mclvor  read  it  to  the  end,  then 
laughed  a  little  contemptuously  and  put  it  care- 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


fully  on  file.  It  was  characteristic  of  the  man  that 
he  had  no  secretary.  The  next  communication 
was  a  note  from  Lady  Evelyn  Malloring  asking 
him  to  dine,  informally  with  her  that  evening. 
"We  have  a  delightful  house  guest,  young  Viola 
Mordaunt.  Do  come  and  help  me  make  it 
pleasant  for  her — ,"  Lady  Evelyn  wrote. 

Mclvor  drew  his  brows  together.  "Mordaunt — • 
Mordaunt — where  did  I  hear  that  name? — surely 
— there  was  something  extraordinary  connected 
with  it,  but  I  can't  place  it.  It's  incredible  of 
Lady  Evelyn  to  want  me  to  make  things  jolly  for  a 
young  girl.  I'm  not  exactly  a  festive  person — 
however —  "  he  got  up  slowly,  gathering  his  corre 
spondence  together,  "I  shall  go  to  astonish  her." 

That  evening  at  eight  o'clock,  Mclvor  was  put 
down  in  front  of  Lady  Malloring's  in  Half  Moon 
street;  but  before  walking  up  the  red  carpet  that 
had  been  laid  on  the  pavement,  he  threw  his  head 
back  and  looked  up  at  the  wintry  sky.  A  sharp 
wind  was  blowing,  and  ragged  clouds  swept  across 
the  heavens,  through  which  a  pale  moon  shone  fit 
fully.  Night  in  London  presented  a  new  scene  to 
Mclvor,  and  as  its  airs  brushed  his  cheek,  he  was 
conscious  of  kinship  with  the  moods  of  nature, — 
of  man's  response  to  the  heavens,  as  the  tides  of  the 
earth  are  subject  to  the  moon.  Something  in  the 
wan  and  sinister  light  filled  him  with  a  feeling  of 
depression,  as  though  he  had  been  made  suddenly 
aware  of  some  impending  and  unhappy  fate  that 
he  would  be  unable  to  avert. 

[12] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


"I'm  fey  tonight,"  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders, 
Mclvor  ran  up  the  stairs  and  was  admitted  to  the 
light  and  charming  house  of  the  Mallorings.  Lady 
Evelyn  greeted  him  cordially,  and  with  no  trace  of 
the  astonishment  that  she  had  really  felt  at  his 
acceptance  of  her  invitation.  She  was  a  small 
blonde  woman,  who,  if  the  fates  were  kind,  could 
be  exquisitely  pretty,  but  who,  personally,  had  no 
instinct  at  all  for  dress.  When  gowned  by  a  dress 
maker  of  conscience,  in  a  shade  of  midnight  blue 
that  brought  out  the  lovely  color  of  her  eyes,  she 
was  charming,  but  like  the  chameleon  she  was  at 
the  mercy  of  her  background,  and  always,  like  that 
animal,  unconscious  of  it.  Tonight's  was,  how 
ever,  a  fortunate  selection — and  Mclvor  looked  at 
her  small  figure,  as  she  came  towards  him,  with 
pleasure.  His  dissenting  eyes  could  not  have  told 
why — but  his  artistic  hands  knew. 

There  were  only  eight  guests  dining,  and  as 
Mclvor  was  the  last,  and  was  to  give  his  arm  to  his 
hostess,  they  went  out  at  once. 

Lady  Mainwarring,  a  large  brunette,  who  was 
aggressive  with  health,  and  had  defied  heaven, 
Lord  Mainwarring,  and  her  complexion  by  dressing 
in  purple,  was  on  Mclvor's  left  talking  vigorously 
to  Lord  Arthur  Drummond,  who  was  a  member  of 
the  Upper  House.  She  had  magnificent  breath 
control,  and  an  undoubted  gift  for  oratory  of  the 
impassioned  type — and  poor  Lord  Arthur,  a  man 
of  the  mildest  and  most  domestic  nature,  whom 
the  accident  of  birth  had  visited  with  a  political 

[13] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


career,  and  a  militant  suffragist  for  a  wife,  felt  that 
he  was  drowning  in  a  sea  of  words — and  cast  a 
desperate  glance  at  the  lady  on  his  right,  who  had 
been  hidden  from  Mclvor's  amused  glance.  At 
Drummond's  movement,  however,  her  profile 
came  into  view,  thrown  into  sharp  relief  against 
the  dark  paneling  of  the  room.  In  his  astonish 
ment,  Mclvor  spoke  aloud: 

"Why,  who — is  she?" 

Lady  Malloring  turned  to  him — • 

"You  are  not  quite  definite — but  don't  point; 
I  see  that  you  are  looking  at  our  house  guest,  at 
Viola  Mordaunt."  She  brought  out  the  girl's 
name  with  the  slightest  precision,  and  looked  at 
Mclvor  to  see  if  it  had  made  any  impression. 

"Her  beauty  must  be  my  excuse — it  positively 
startled  me — " 

Mclvor  managed  a  short,  forced  laugh  that 
sounded  wildly  unnatural  to  himself.  But  his 
hostess  would  not  let  him  off. 

"Is  that  what  startled  you, — really — or  was  it  a 
— a  likeness  to  anyone?"  She  fixed  her  blue  eyes 
on  him  curiously. 

Before  Mclvor's  inward  vision  was  a  scene  so 
distinct  that  he  seemed  to  be  moving  in  it  again. 
He  was  a  boy  of  eighteen  in  Petersburg  with  his 
tutor.  They  were  in  the  dining  room  of  the 
Winter  Palace  listening  to  an  orchestra  of  stringed 
instruments.  The  audience  was  made  up  of 
Russians,  French,  and  a  good  many  English;  a 
man  and  woman  had  come  in  a  little  late  and 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


seated  themselves  near  the  door,  and  Mclvor  had 
stared  at  them  with  the  sheer  wonder  of  one  who 
makes  a  discovery.  Their  beauty  had  seemed  like 
the  proclamation  of  a  great  truth,  the  truth  that  in 
the  love  of  man  and  woman  immortality  is  some 
times  made  manifest.  As  the  boy  had  looked  at 
them  he  was  conscious  of  a  murmuring  and  shifting 
around  him,  and  several  English  couples  that  were 
near  the  two  had  looked  with  an  insolent  and 
brutal  curiosity  at  them,  and  had  then  moved  their 
seats.  He  had  seen  the  man  in  the  doorway 
flush,  furiously,  and  he  had  watched  the  woman 
smile  at  him,  tenderly,  and  as  though  she  were  a 
little  amused;  and  she  had  kept  him  there  until  the 
concert  was  over.  Afterwards,  he  had  heard  their 
story, — and  he  had  never  seen  them  again,  but  he 
had  never  forgotten.  And  tonight  he  saw  that 
woman's  face  looking  at  him  across  Lady  Mallor- 
ing's  flowers. 

"Does  she,"  repeated  Lady  Evelyn,  patiently, 
"remind  you  of  any  one?" 

Mclvor  raised  his  beautiful  hands  to  his  eyes  for 
a  moment  before  he  answered,  and  then,  facing  her 
squarely,— smiled. 

"Not  in  the  least,  Lady  Malloring, — but,  I  hope 
you  will  present  me." 

The  delicate  malice  that  dwelt  in  Lady  Evelyn 
was  satisfied.  The  saint  in  Mclvor,  the  man  of 
ruthless  truth,  had  been  betrayed.  London  would 
fear  him  no  more.  She  knew  that  he  had  lied  to 
her,  and  she  had  seen  the  verdict  the  fates  decreed 

[15] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


Viola  Mordaunt,  in  this  lie.  It  was  evident  they 
had  turned  up  their  thumbs. 

After  dinner,  Lord  and  Lady  Mainwarring  and 
the  Drummonds  went  on  to  a  reception,  but  the 
Mallorings  had  a  box  at  Covent  Garden. 

"It's  Otello,"  Lady  Evelyn  announced  in  an  off 
hand  way  to  her  husband,  who  was  one  of  those 
singular  but  by  no  means  unusual  people  in  whom 
there  is  a  dislike  of  music  so  acute  as  to  cause  them 
almost  physical  pain  when  they  are  obliged  to 
listen  to  it.  Lady  Malloring  knew  perfectly  how 
Sir  John  felt,  and  had,  in  the  first  years  of  her 
marriage,  spared  him  when  she  could.  But  lately 
she  had  taken  up  a  new  and  very  soothing  religion, 
whose  tenets  supported  one  in  ignoring  all  that  did 
not  please,  and  she  sought  to  help  her  husband  by 
an  application  of  those  precepts. 

He  cast  her  a  reproachful  but  patient  look,  but 
as  he  adored  her  absolutely,  got  into  the  motor 
like  a  lamb.  Lady  Evelyn,  a  little  flushed  by  her 
victory,  and  laying  its  cause  to  astonishing  mental 
and  moral  progress,  gave  him  a  fleeting  and 
triumphant  smile,  that  caused  a  glow  of  pride,  at 
being  its  possessor,  to  warm  Sir  John's  heart. 

"She  thinks  she's  managed  you,"  his  far  from 
dull  intelligence  informed  him. 

"Well,  let  her,"  responded  his  affection,  "She's 
pretty  enough — I'm  for  her." 

Owing  to  Lady  Malloring's  little  coup,  her  party 
arrived  five  minutes  before  the  curtain  rose.  Poor 
Sir  John  made  inward  lamentation  at  his  ill  fortune 

[16] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


in  not  being  spared  anything,  and  even  Lady 
Evelyn  cast  a  look  of  dismay  at  the  empty  stalls, 
which,  however,  gradually  rilled  with  miscel 
laneous,  and  to  her,  unknown  faces;  critics, 
reporters,  semi-smart  people  and,  incidentally, 
music  lovers. 

Looking  through  her  glasses,  from  their  ground 
box,  to  the  opposite  ones,  Lady  Malloring  per 
ceived  that  a  Royal  Personage  was  in  attendance, 
and  that  above  in  the  tiers,  the  opera  glasses  of 
many  of  her  friends  were  leveled  at  the  occupants 
of  her  own  box.  Lady  Malloring  had  managed  the 
seating  cleverly,  so  that  Viola  was  in  front  with 
Mclvor  in  back  and  a  little  to  her  right;  Sir  John 
lurked  miserably  in  the  back,  and  would  not  be 
placed, — Lady  Evelyn  sat  next  a  chair  for  him, 
quite  by  herself,  where  she  commanded  an  excel 
lent  view  of  the  house,  if  not  such  a  fine  one  of  the 
stage. 

It  was  a  brilliant  audience,  and  though  to  Lady 
Evelyn  it  was  nothing  new,  to  Viola  Mordaunt  it 
seemed  an  exciting  and  stimulating  prelude  to  some 
remarkable  experience.  Mclvor,  his  own  face  in 
shadow,  was  able  to  watch  the  fascinating  play  of 
expression  on  the  girl's,  as  the  curtain  rising  dis 
closed  a  tavern  with  an  arbor,  and  in  the  back 
ground  a  quay,  and  evening  light  on  angry  water. 
To  Viola,  who  had  been  kept  in  the  careful 
seclusion  of  the  English  school  girl,  her  first  sight 
of  the  theater,  the  visualization  of  what  she  had 
loved  in  literature,  moved  her  tremendously.  As 

[17] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


the  conductor  raised  his  baton,  he  released  a  magic 
flood  of  harmony  on  which  Viola  floated.  But  the 
fear  of  being  ridiculous  in  her  enthusiasm,  made 
Viole  turn  what  she  thought  was  a  composed  face 
to  Mclvor. 

"Rosinni  is  in  splendid  voice,  isn't  she?" 

"Tell  me,  Miss  Mordaunt,"  Mclvor  brushed  her 
banality  aside  in  a  characteristic  way,  "does 
Otello  interest  you?" 

"The  man?  or  the  play?" 

"You  have  answered  me.  You  said  'the  man/ — 
he  lives  to  you.  Shakespeare  did  not  over-rate  the 
infinite  patience  of  woman,  or  the  infinite  ego  in 
man.  Poor  Desdemona  pathetically  enumerating 
the  woes  he  had  told  her: 

'Wherein  of  antres  vast  and  deserts  idle, 

Rough  quarries,  rocks,  and  hills  whose  heads 
touch  heaven — 

It  was  thy  hint  to  speak,  and  of  the  torments 

Borne  by  thy  noble  self — ' 

presents,  does  she  not,  a  living  sacrifice,  in  the  first 
act?" 

"Why,"  said  Viola  with  warm  championship, 
"no,  she's  lovely,  and  she  liked  his  telling  her  all 
that." 

"Didn't  it  bore  her?  I  mean,  doesn't  it 
seem  an  imposition  on  his  part,  giving  her  all  his 
bogeys?" 

Mclvor  spoke  with  a  curious  intensity,  and 
Viola,  turning  to  him  with  an  impulsive  move 
ment  that  was  very  feminine,  answered  his  mood, 

[18] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


with  sincerity.    Long  afterward  she  remembered 
this  conversation: 

"Desdemona  says, 

'I  saw  Otello's  visage  in  his  mind. 

And  thus  to  him  did  my  soul  consecrate/ 
She's   splendid — but/'    Mclvor   looked   at   Viola 
with  his  peculiarly  bright  eyes,  "I  think  that  was 
the  beginning  of  the  trouble,  don't  you? — or  it 
would  be  in  a  modern  instance;  a  man  seeking  the 
understanding    of    an    intelligence,    the    woman 
answering  with  her  emotions."    Mclvor  shifted  in 
his  seat.     "Is  my  idea  repellent  to  you?    Would 
you  prefer — "  he  gave  a  short  laugh: 
:  *  You  loved  me  for  the  dangers  I  had  passed, 

And  I  loved  you,  that  you  did  pity  them'  "? 

Lady  Evelyn  leaned  forward  and  touched  Viola 
on  the  arm.  "What  are  you  talking  about?  I 
can't  understand  a  word  of  this  Italian.  Do, 
Viola,  for  pity's  sake,  say  something  to  John — 
Oh,  hush — there  it  goes  again." 

Before  Viola  could  turn  to  her  host  "it"  began 
with  the  wistful  refrain  of  the  prelude  for  the 
fourth  act.  As  she  gave  her  attention  to  the  scene, 
Viola  was  conscious  that  Mclvor  had  moved  a 
little  nearer,  and  that  his  hand,  which  had  replaced 
her  cloak  very  gently  on  the  back  of  the  chair  from 
which  it  had  slipped,  still  retained  part  of  the  cloak 
in  its  grasp.  Viola  was  as  aware  of  the  concentra 
tion  of  his  mind  on  her,  as  she  was  of  his  hand  hold 
ing  the  wrap  delicately.  And  this  concentration 
of  his  seemed  to  go  with  her  into  the  absorbing  play. 

[19] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 

The  tragedy  being  finally  accomplished  and  the 
audience  once  more  in  a  blaze  of  light,  Viola  put  a 
handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  to  hide  the  tears  that  had 
sprung  there.  Sir  John  in  the  good  humor  natural 
to  one  released  from  torment,  patted  her 
consolingly. 

"Nice  cheery  little  piece,  my  wife  fancied — 
forget  it,  my  dear.  The  only  thing  I  can't  forgive 
them,  is  that  the  killing  didn't  come  off  in  the  first 
act!" 

"Tell  me,"  Mclvor  touched  his  host  on  the 
shoulder,  "do  you  ride  tomorrow  morning?" 

"Yes,  at  ten,  old  fellow — join  me?"  There  was  a 
touch  of  surprise  in  Sir  John's  voice. 

"With  pleasure,  if  I  may.  I've  a  new  mare, 
Irish  bred,  that  will  stand  a  deal  of  handling. 
You  care  for  horses,  Miss  Mordaunt?" 

Viola  looked  up,  and  Mclvor  met  her  glance 
that  was  full  of  astonishment.  She  had  been  in  the 
darkened  room  with  the  murdered  lovers,  and  she 
thought  this  man  had  been  with  her  there.  And 
now — he  asked  in  the  most  ordinary  way  if  she  liked 
horses. 

"Why,  yes,  of  course — surely  every  one  cares 
for  them." 

Mclvor  did  not  take  his  eyes  from  hers.  "You 
could  never  be  like  every  one,  and — "  he  added 
slowly,  "I  want  to  know  you  better,  if  I  may." 

Lady  Malloring,  caught  by  two  bores  that 
wanted  a  peep  at  Mclvor  and  Viola,  refused  their 
pressing  invitation  to  go  on  to  the  Ritz,  with 

[20] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 

decision,  and  managed  to  get  her  party  safely  into 
the  motor  again.  "It's  high  time  for  you  to  be  in 
bed,  my  dear,"  she  said  to  Viola,  relaxing,  and 
becoming  almost  maternal  in  her  feelings,  as  she 
thought  of  the  comfort  of  being  tucked  up.  Her 
interest  in  her  protege  had  been  more  than  justi 
fied.  Viola's  beauty  was  extraordinary;  the  im 
pression  she  had  so  evidently  made  on  Mclvor, 
that  man  supposedly  composed  of  the  granite  of 
his  native  hills,  being  proof  enough.  Life  was  not 
an  exciting  thing  personally  to  Evelyn  Malloring, 
but  she  liked  it  to  be  interesting  to  look  at  from  a 
safe  vantage,  and  to-night  she  really  had  a  feeling 
of  giving  a  turn  to  the  wheel  of  fate. 

Mclvor  had  insisted  on  walking  and  found  the 
deserted  streets  with  relief.  The  cold  wind  had 
died  and  the  moonlight  fell  in  delicate  and  lumi 
nous  patterns  through  the  branches  of  the  plane- 
trees  that  bordered  the  pavement,  and  to  which 
some  withered  leaves  still  clung.  A  faint,  white 
mist,  like  the  breath  of  approaching  winter,  filmed 
the  air,  and  made  Mclvor,  as  he  walked  rapidly 
towards  Cadogan  Square,  think  of  his  native  and 
beloved  Wales  and  its  especial  corner  in  whose 
interest  he  had  come  to  London.  He  saw  the  gray 
walls  of  Trevwithin  set  in  its  green  gardens,  and 
the  waters  of  the  Conway  slipping  swiftly  below 
them  to  the  little  town  of  Glas  Ogven,  with  its 
great  slate  quarries  and  its  workers  that  looked 
to  him  surely  for  help.  Caught  in  the  grasp  of 
the  Snowden  mountains,  menaced  by  the  sea  at 

[21] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 

its  feet,  Glas  Ogven  looked  up  to  Trevwithin 
that  Mclvor  had  restored,  and  lived  in  that  he 
might  answer  their  need.  And  to  him  their  need 
had  always  come  first.  To-night  he  had  wanted  to 
share  his  knowledge  of  the  villagers  and  their 
lives — he  had  wanted  to  speak  of  his  work  to  a 
woman  whose  face  had  brought  to  him  across  the 
years  the  memory  of  love  like  a  flame  that  had 
warmed  him  as  he  looked  on  it,  but  had  destroyed 
utterly  the  life  that  had  touched  it.  Mclvor  had 
forgotten  that  destruction. 


[22] 


CHAPTER  III 

It  was  Christmas  week  and  Thorley  was  once 
more  full  of  life  and  activities.  Pamela  and  Anne 
who  had,  it  must  be  admitted,  suffered  a  dimin 
ished  shining  in  London  because  of  the  exceeding 
effulgence  of  Viola,  were  more  than  pleased  to  be 
at  home,  and  the  old  place  had  answered  with  the 
pathetic  and  undeniable  response  of  inanimate 
walls  for  those  whom  they  have  sheltered.  There 
had  been  a  light  fall  of  snow,  and  the  gardens  and 
graveled  paths  were  dusted  with  it. 

As  the  motor  brought  Lady  Adela  and  the  three 
girls  from  the  station  through  the  welcoming 
village,  up  the  long  avenue  of  beeches  to  the  house 
itself,  all  four  of  them  felt  a  tug  at  their  heart 
strings  at  its  familiar  but  almost  absurdly  picture- 
card  aspect. 

"You  get  them,  five  for  a  penny,  at  the  'Green 
Man,'  don't  you,  Aunt?"  Lady  Adela,  wrapped  to 
the  eyes,  peered  at  Viola  vaguely.  She  did  not 
understand  what  Viola  was  talking  about,  and 
was  too  cold  to  inquire.  Pam,  however,  faced  her 
cousin  with  a  quick  little  motion:  "You're  making 
game  of  the  old  house,  aren't  you?  Perhaps  you'd 
like  a  futurist  place  better."  Pamela  was  quick  to 
detect  any  un-English  trait  in  Viola,  and  since  she 
had  been  forced  to  observe  her  successes,  Pamela 
thought  she  had  seen  a  good  many. 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 

Stamping  their  chilled  feet  and  wringing  their 
cold  hands,  the  family  trooped  into  the  house  and 
were  fussed  over  and  made  comfortable  by  the 
delighted  servants. 

Melon,  grown  gray,  and  severely  buttoned  up,  in 
decent  black,  took  proud  possession  of  Pamela, 
whose  rather  large  features  were  quite  Ted  and 
inflamed  from  the  drive  through  the  cold  air. 
Viola,  slipping  off  her  heavy  wrap,  and  turning  a 
face  that  glowed  like  a  rose,  spoke  cordially  to  the 
old  thing,  but  received  a  prim  response.  Melon  had 
never  approved  of  her,  and  the  fact  that  she  now  so 
visibly  outshone  Pam  was  not  to  be  forgiven. 

A  cry  of  surprise  from  Lady  Adela,  who  had 
been  opening  some  telegrams  before  the  fire, 
brought  the  girls  to  her. 

"Robert  is  coming  down  from  Oxford — will  be 
here  to-night — that's  fine,  isn't  it?  All  of  us 
together  for  the  holidays.  But  here,  my  dears,  is 
the  real  surprise!"  She  held  an  opened  telegram 
up  dramatically,  but  fixed  her  eyes  on  Pamela. 

"Well,  mother?"  said  that  maiden,  stirring 
impatiently. 

"Don't  get  waxy,  Pam — let  the  blow  fall,  please 
— mother."  Anne  looked  at  her  mother  patiently, 
as  one  practicing  forbearance  towards  an  inferior, 
but  harmless  intelligence.  "Aren't  you  curious, 
Viola  ?"  Lady  Adela,  determined  on  her  sensation, 
waited  for  Viola's  quick  nod. 

"This  is  it,  then.  Your  cousin,  Harold  Gaunt, 
whom  you  have  not  seen  since  you  were  infants,  is 

[24] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


home,  on  leave  from  India,  and  will  be  in  this 
house  to-night.  The  motor  has  left  to  fetch  him — 
and  that,  my  dears,  is  the  dressing  bell;  I  haven't 
been  so  happy  in  years!" 

The  good  lady,  clutching  a  miscellany  of  wraps 
and  bags,  and  with  her  small  toque  pushed  to  the 
back  of  her  head,  still  managed  to  put  an  arm 
about  Viola.  "I'll  come  to  your  room  a  minute, 
dear,  to  see  that  everything  is  comfy."  Arrived 
there,  however,  and  deposited  hospitably  by 
Viola,  in  the  little  chintz  armchair,  by  the  fire, 
Lady  Adela  did  no  looking,  save  at  the  heaped  and 
brightly  burning  wood. 

Viola,  noticing,  despite  her  aunt's  utterly  di 
sheveled  condition,  the  somewhat  pensive  expres 
sion  of  her  face,  sat  down,  quietly,  by  her,  and 
presently  Lady  Adela,  warmed  unconsciously  by 
the  sympathetic  silence,  as  well  as  the  warm  blaze, 
spoke  shyly. 

"It  would  be  awfully  nice,  wouldn't  it,  Vi?" 

"What,  dear?" 

"Why,  if — what  Henry  Gaunt  and  I  had  planned 
so  long  ago  should  really  happen.  If  Harold  and 
Pam — I  think  they  would  be  suited.  And  to  have 
my  girl  marry  some  one  whom  I  know.  He's  quite 
splendid,  you  know,  took  the  V.  C.,  probably  he 
would  retire,  and  they  could  have  Hampton,  it 
will  be  Pam's,  anyway." 

"Have  they  written?" 

"I  rather  think  so.  But  of  course  I  don't  know. 
Pam  is  secretive  with  me — in  fact,"  Lady  Adela 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


raised  her  kind  face,  with  the  rakish  hat  on  top, 
somewhat  plaintively  to  Viola's.  "So  is  Anne, 
but  of  course  they  would  tell  me  anything  im 
portant.  Well,  dear,  I  must  run  along — You 
won't  breathe  a  word  of  what  I've  said — I  want 
them  to  be  quite  simple  and  natural  together,  and 
without  any  idea  that  we  are  thinking  things." 

Lady  Adela,  once  more  gathering  up  her  belong 
ings,  stood  and  looked  at  Viola.  As  she  did  so 
Pam's  face,  with  its  prominent  highly  colored 
features,  light  eyes,  and  decisive  expression,  came 
before  her  mental  vision — not  through  the  loving 
and  maternal  medium  through  which  Lady  Adela 
usually  saw  her  daughter.  While  her  inner  eyes 
glimpsed  Pam,  her  outer  ones  saw  Viola,  with  mis 
giving.  Surely  it  had  been  unnecessary  for  Vi  to 
have  everything.  The  slender,  well  poised  figure — 
the  dark  hair  gathered  in  a  dusky  heap  and  crown 
ing  her  lovely  little  head  with  soft  curls — the  eyes, 
their  brown  gaze  veiled  with  creamy  lids,  and 
made  mysterious  by  black  and  exquisitely  curling 
lashes — the  little,  delicate  nose,  turning  up  ever  so 
slightly  over  the  red  lips. 

As  Lady  Adela  looked  at  Viola  her  expression 
became  piteous,  her  voice  even  trembled  a  bit: 

"Vi,  dear,  for  my  sake,  give  Pam  a  chance, 
won't  you?  Men,  you  know,  are  awful  fools." 

"What  in  the  world,  dear?" 

"It's  hard  to  say — to  you — but  look  in  the 
glass!  Wear  something  old;  do  your  hair  un 
becomingly,  if  you  can — be  late — be  awkward  and 

[26] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


untidy — talk  politics,  tout  for  Suffrage,  or  the 
Radicals,  and  don't  for  heaven's  sake — don't  look 
at  Harold  Gaunt  as  you  are  looking  at  me,  now,  or 
he  will  have  to  kiss  you,  as  I  do."  Lady  Adela 
drew  Viola's  head  down  to  her  and  kissed  her 
tenderly. 

"I'm  too  old  to  hate  you  for  my  own  sake,  and 
too  fond  of  you  to  do  it  for  my  girls — but,  be  as 
careful  with  us  as  you  can." 

Viola  lifted  an  astonished  face,  one  sincerely 
surprised,  as  Lady  Adela  saw,  and  marveled  to  see. 

"Aunt,  what  nonsense!  but  if  Harold  is  pre 
served,  of  course  I'll  keep  off.  We'll  both  be  late 
and  frowzy  for  dinner  to-night — it's  a  judgment  on 
you!" 

The  gong  for  dinner  sounded  faintly.  Lady 
Adela,  making  a  wild  snatch  at  her  toque,  suc 
ceeded  in  pushing  it  quite  over  the  back  of  her 
head,  where  it  hung  by  one  hat  pin.  Her  hand  bag, 
always  overfull,  being  caught  up  in  desperate 
haste,  was  unable  to  bear  extra  pressure,  and 
burst  wildly  open,  disclosing  disordered  contents, 
and  Lady  Adela  crushed  them  down,  but  Viola, 
moved  by  pity,  took  the  bag  away  from  her,  and 
gave  her  aunt  a  gentle  pat  by  way  of  assistance 
from  the  room. 

Alone,  Viola  stood  quietly  by  an  open  window 
for  a  moment.  The  night  was  clear,  studded  with 
brilliant  stars,  and  a  breath  of  frost  in  the  air 
promised  a  good  day  for  a  run  with  the  hounds. 
Viola's  horse  Eileen,  a  black  Irish  beauty,  had  not 

[27] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


been  sent  up  to  London,  and  it  was  quite  six 
months  since  Viola  had  been  on  her.  Riding  in 
the  Row  was  not  the  same  thing  as  the  free  gallops 
across  the  meadow  and  in  the  open  country  that 
Viola  had  always  taken  when  the  spirit  moved  her 
to  be  away  from  people,  soothed  by  the  indifference 
of  nature. 

Straining  her  eyes  in  the  darkness  Viola  could 
make  out  the  stables — a  boy  with  a  lantern  held 
his  small  light  high  for  a  moment  before  going  in, 
and  Viola  half  fancied  the  horse  he  was  leading  in 
was  Eileen. 

"But  that's  nonsense!"  she  said  to  herself. 
"To-morrow  will  come,  and  then  I  shall  have  a 
real  ride!" 

As  she  moved  from  the  window,  a  discreet  tap 
was  heard  at  her  door,  and  opening,  Viola  saw 
Melon,  grim  with  disapproval. 

"The  others  are  waiting,  Miss.  Her  Ladyship 
asked  if  you  would  be  so  good  as  to  come  right 
down?" 

"But — heavens! — I've  not  changed!" 

"No,  Miss,  but  that's  what  she  said."  Melon 
withdrew. 

"Very  well — "  Viola  frowned,  then  touched  her 
white  blouse,  which  was  not  fresh,  and  was  open 
at  the  throat.  "I'm  disgusting,  I'll  take  away 
their  appetites — but  heaven  forbid!  not  Pamela's 
admirer!" 

A  few  moments  later,  entering  the  drawing 
room  quietly,  Viola  saw  Harold  Gaunt  for  the 

[28] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 

first  time  in  her  life.  He  was  talking  to  Lady 
Adela  or  rather  smiling  down  at  her,  while  she 
talked  nervously  and  disjointedly  to  him.  He 
was  a  big  man,  and  though  dinner  was  late  and  he 
had  evidently  come  a  long  way,  he  did  not  seem 
impatient,  but  kept  the  very  blue  gaze  of  his  eyes 
bent  on  Lady  Mordaunt,  as  she  struggled  with  the 
intricacies  of  a  story  that  had  been  amusing,  even 
brilliant,  when  told  to  her,  but  became  involved, 
elusive,  devoid  of  point, x  when  she  attempted  it 
herself.  Her  little  effort  at  wit  made  Pamela 
irritable,  and  she  moved  over  to  her  mother,  her 
strong,  rather  heavy  figure,  in  its  blue  gown  of 
determined  simplicity,  held  stiffly. 

"Shall  we  wait  any  longer,  Mother,  for  Viola? 
She  may  not  be  coming  down,  and  poor  Harold 
must  be  famished.'' 

"Oh,  not  at  all,  thanks,  very  much.  It's  jolly 
being  here;  let's  wait — if  she's  coming?  I've  never 
seen  Viola,  you  now.  She  was  at  school  both 
times  I  made  my  visits  to  you.  I'm  anxious  to 
know  her — "  Harold  smiled  pleasantly  at 
Pamela's  effort  on  his  behalf,  and  then,  attracted, 
possibly,  by  Viola's  eyes  upon  him,  turned  and 
saw  her,  in  traveling  skirt  and  tumbled  blouse. 

Lady  Adela  noticed  at  once  the  change  of 
expression  that  came  into  his  face;  she  had  seen  it 
before  when  people  looked  at  Viola — there  was  a 
concentrated  and  delighted  surprise  in  it,  as  one 
seeing  visions  made  flesh.  Lady  Adela  sighed,  but 
advanced  to  her  niece. 

[29] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


"Come,  dear,  this  is  your  cousin  Harold  Gaunt. 
He  was  just  saying  that  he  had  never  met 
you,  and  perhaps,  was  thinking  that  he  never 
might!" 

"I  know,  Aunt,  forgive  me  for  being  late,  but — " 

Gaunt  took  her  slight  hand  and  held  it  for  a 
moment  firmly.  "But  what?"  he  said,  "what  has 
kept  you  from  rushing  down  to  meet  me  ?  I've  had 
a  most  tremendous  desire  to  see  you — I'm  just 
home  from  Kairpur,  from  India;  this  is  my  first 
English  Christmas  in  five  years."  He  released 
Viola's  hand,  and  turned  to  Lady  Adela.  "You 
are  making  them  up  to  me — those  years  in  the 
desert." 

At  the  note  of  sincere  warmth  and  feeling  in  his 
voice,  Lady  Adela's  face  flushed  and  her  kind  eyes 
were  suffused.  "Dear  boy,"  she  murmured,  put 
ting  her  hand  on  his  arm,  "we  love  having  you. 
With  Robert  coming,  we  are  going  to  be  a  complete 
family,  for  once.  You  may  take  Pamela  out, 
Harold,  dinner  is  waiting." 

The  dining  room  at  Thorley  was  both  long  and 
wide.  The  ceiling  was  crossed  by  heavy  beams  of 
oak,  darkened  by  age  almost  to  black.  In  the 
great  fireplace  huge  logs  burned  and  rested  on 
massive  andirons  of  beaten  brass,  whose  polished 
surfaces  reflected  the  dancing  flames.  Over  the 
mantel  the  family  arms  were  cut  into  the  stone. 
Six  windows  deep  in  embrasures  looked  out  on 
green  lawns,  a  rose  garden,  and  great  shady 
beeches. 

[30] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


The  table  was  prettily  laid  with  modern  silver, 
and  delicate  French  china;  a  silver  epergne,  in  the 
center,  filled  with  old-fashioned  clove  carnations, 
represented  a  stubborn  defiance  of  Lady  Adela's. 
The  epergne,  being  frankly  hideous  as  well  as 
undeniably  mid- Victorian,  had  been  condemned  by 
both  Pamela  and  Anne  as  "too  much/'  After  each 
banishment,  it  had  but  waited  a  discreet  interval 
to  reappear,  turning,  so  to  speak,  a  flower-laden 
cheek  to  be  smitten.  Pamela,  catching  sight  of  it 
again,  admitted  defeat. 

The  butler,  Parkman,  and  two  footmen  waited. 
To  Harold  Gaunt  the  old  room  bearing  on  its  walls 
the  portraits  of  his  family,  extended  a  splendid 
hospitality.  The  warmth  of  the  fire,  the  heavy 
fragrance  of  the  clove  carnations,  the  faces  of  his 
aunt  and  cousins  seated  about  the  table,  seemed 
like  a  welcome  to  what  is  dearest  to  an  English 
man — his  home. 

As  Gaunt  looked  at  Viola,  he  fancied  her  eyes  in 
meeting  his  showed  sympathy  for  his  years  of 
exile,  and  a  beautiful  gladness  at  his  return. 

She  did  not  look  at  him  long,  however,  but 
opened  an  almost  violently  animated  conversation 
with  her  aunt,  in  defense  of  some  militants  that 
had  destroyed  the  contents  of  a  pillar  box.  He 
was  amused  at  her  championship,  watching  her 
quick  color,  the  light  in  her  eyes,  and  the  look  of 
withdrawal  and  exquisite  mystery,  when  she 
lowered  them,  and  her  long  lashes  curled  against 
her  cheek. 

[31] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 

A  clear  voice  at  his  side  interrupted  these 
observations.  He  turned — to  look  at  Pamela,  who 
held  his  glance  with  small  eyes,  guiltless  of  ambush. 

"I  was  asking  if  you  would  care  to  hunt  with  us 
to-morrow?  The  weather's  perfect,  I  think,  and 
there's  a  good  horse  for  you." 

"I'd  not  thought  of  it.    Do  you  all  follow?" 

"I  do,  not  Anne.  Viola,  I  don't  know  about. 
Robert  is  too  stuffy — he  comes  home  to  lounge 
about;  worn  out  from  everything  but  study. 
There  are  some  people  staying  at  Crawdon,  next 
us,  you  know.  They  may  join."  Pamela  raised 
her  voice  slightly.  "You'll  come?  I  think  it  only 
right  for  us  to  take  an  interest." 

Something  in  Gaunt,  that  had  its  being  in  a  fact 
of  his  nature,  resented  this  heightened  tone,  the 
hint  of  compulsion  in  her  words. 

He  looked  away  from  Pam.  "I  think  I  won't, 
if  you  don't  mind.  It  will  be  rather  jolly,  just  to 
get  acquainted  with  the  old  place.  And  I  have  no 


mount." 


"There's  one  for  you.  Vi,  Harold  could  ride 
Deegan,  perfectly,  couldn't  he?" 

"Why,  yes — of  course  he  could." 

"There!  now  you've  no  excuse!" 

Harold  leaned  a  little  forward.  "Will  you  ride, 
Cousin  Viola?"  And  the  masculinity  that  was  a 
very  strong  trait  of  his  character  reveled  in  the 
initiative  of  his  question. 

Viola  veiled  her  eyes — she  did  so  to  make  no 
encroachment  on  Pam's  property.  She  could  have 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


done  nothing  to  make  herself  more  alluring  to 
Gaunt.  "I  think  not,  Cousin  Harold — I — must  be 
busy.  Letters  to  write — " 

Anne  listened  in  astonishment.  "You!  letters! 
— since  when?" 

Lady  Adela  looked  long  at  the  epergne,  which 
represented  her  victory.  And  she  remembered  the 
tactics  of  her  warfare.  Submission — passivity — 
and  then  return. 

She  smiled  at  Viola:  "My  dear  child,  you  are 
talking  nonsense.  Of  course  you  will  ride,  to 
morrow!"  Pushing  back  her  chair,  Lady  Adela 
stood  up,  after  sweeping  a  spoon  from  the  table 
with  her  napkin,  and  led  the  way  to  the  drawing- 
room.  Harold  Gaunt  was  for  once  in  his  very 
polite  life  distinctly  backward  about  opening  the 
door.  He  went  instead  directly  to  Viola. 

"Will  you  ride  with  me  to-morrow,  Cousin 
Viola?" 

And  Viola,  lifting  her  eyes  to  his,  smiled  deli- 
ciously.  "Thank  you,  Cousin  Harold,  I  shall  be 
very  much  pleased." 

Lady  Adela,  before  whom  doors  had  always 
flown  open  as  if  by  magic,  when  any  Englishman 
was  about,  stopped  in  astonishment  before  her  own 
door  that  remained  closed.  Turning,  however,  the 
look  of  surprise  on  her  face  faded.  With  a  sigh, 
she  opened  the  door  herself. 


[33] 


CHAPTER  IV 

Melon,  bringing  Viola's  tea  the  next  morning, 
was  forced  to  admit  a  radiant  day.  She  put  back 
the  chintz  curtains,  and  Viola  saw  the  copper 
beeches  glowing  against  a  blue  sky.  The  air, 
sharp  and  sweet,  carried  the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs 
on  the  gravel,  and  the  voices  of  the  grooms  and 
stable  boys. 

The  meet  was  to  lead  off  from  Hatfield  Heath, 
at  ten  o'clock,  but  the  Honorable  John  Thornton, 
M.F.H.,  was  to  breakfast  at  Thorley. 

Viola  heard  voices  in  the  dining-room,  as  she 
went  down,  a  little  late.  She  had  taken  pains  with 
her  toilette — her  hair  still  damp  from  the  bath  lay 
in  charming  but  carefully  arranged  waves,  under  a 
smart  black  hat.  She  wore  a  black  riding  habit 
that  had  been  made  in  London  for  Park  riding, 
and  her  little  boots  were  new,  and  beautifully 
varnished. 

Pamela  and  Anne  were  already  down  and  mak 
ing  excellent  breakfasts.  Robert  was  serving  them 
from  the  buffet  with  cold  ham,  to  top  off  the 
cereal,  liver  and  bacon,  and  scalloped  fish  that  was 
to  reenforce  them  for  the  hunt.  Lady  Adela,  at 
the  head  of  the  table  beside  an  enormous,  and  to 
her,  always  alarming  coffee  percolator,  watched 
the  satisfaction  of  her  daughters'  healthy  appetites, 

[34] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


with  the  pleasure  peculiar  to  a  maternal  parent. 
Harold  Gaunt,  in  pink  hunting  coat  and  white 
breeches,  sat  opposite  his  cousins,  and  also 
noticed  the  appetites — and  their  satisfaction. 

Pamela,  wearing  a  habit  of  pepper  and  salt 
material,  fitted  so  tight  as  to  resemble  a  third  skin, 
alarmed  the  young  man;  she  seemed  to  him  on  the 
brink  of  bursting.  Anne's  clothes  were  quite  large 
enough — you  felt  that  they  were  suitable,  well 
chosen.  And  her  gray  eyes  looking  out  of  a  brown, 
boyish  face,  convinced  one  of  her  capability  in  any 
ordinary  situation.  One  also  felt  that  the  ordinary 
situation  would  be  all  that  she  would  have  to 
meet. 

As  Viola  came  into  the  room,  the  M.F.H.,  a 
man  of  fifty,  with  sandy  hair,  and  a  look  of  enor 
mous  complacency,  stopped  in  the  narration  of  his 
difficulties  in  the  village  of  Watching  Tye.  It  was 
plainly  going  to  the  dogs.  His  estate  of  Rawdon 
to  which  Watching  Tye  was  attached  like  an 
impoverished  and  undesirable  relative,  was  not 
self-supporting,  and  the  Honorable  John  laid  his 
troubles  before  the  Mordaunts. 

At  Viola's  entrance,  his  offended  throaty  voice 
stopped  in  its  recital,  and  Harold  Gaunt,  who  had 
looked  past  him  out  of  the  window  to  the  glittering 
lawn,  got  to  his  feet  in  a  second.  The  Honorable 
John  soon  followed,  but  there  was  an  odd  expres 
sion  in  his  prominent  eyes,  as  he  watched  Viola — 
something  greedy,  and  something  wary,  too,  was 
there. 

[35] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


As  Viola  took  no  breakfast  and  the  others  had 
finished  and  were  chatting,  a  general  move  was 
made.  Arrived  at  Hatfield  Heath,  and  mounted  on 
Eileen,  who  was  quivering  and  restive,  Viola 
turned  her  horse,  after  the  bugle  had  sounded,  in 
the  opposite  direction  to  that  taken  by  the  dogs 
and  the  hunters.  The  mare,  her  neck  arched,  her 
nostrils  dilated  and  showing  red,  fought  against 
Viola's  determination,  with  fiery  spirit;  the  cry  of 
the  hounds  in  full  tongue,  the  rush  of  the  horses, 
filled  her  with  an  eager  excitement  and  actual 
animal  rage,  that  a  less  experienced  rider  could  not 
have  overcome.  With  sympathy  and  skill,  and  by 
finally  giving  the  horse  her  head  over  a  sweep  of 
meadow  land,  Viola  got  away  from  the  others,  and 
gave  herself  to  the  joy  of  the  morning. 

From  the  blue  English  sky  a  lark  flung  its  notes, 
crystalline,  distinct,  pure  as  the  air  they  melted 
into.  The  oaks  that  dotted  the  rich  pasture  land 
were  burnished  like  copper  and  hung  with  a  fine 
mist  of  cobwebs,  through  which  they  seemed  to 
murmur  and  breathe,  as  all  live  things  do,  in  the 
gift  of  light  and  air.  From  the  cluster  of  trees  in 
which  she  stopped,  Viola  could  see  nothing  of 
Thorley,  or  any  trace  of  human  dwellings. 
Letting  the  reins  loose  on  Eileen's  neck,  with  one 
hand  Viola  took  off  the  little  Bond  street  hat,  and 
felt  for  the  damage  done  to  her  hair  by  the  swift 
run.  The  pins  had  been  shaken  from  it,  and  when 
the  hat  came  off  the  heavy  mass  of  it  fell  about  her 
shoulders.  Eileen  taking  a  base  advantage  broke 

[36] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 

into  a  swift  canter.  Viola,  her  hat  slipping  from 
her  hands,  was  carried  out  into  the  sun,  her  hair 
streaming  about  her. 

"Damn!"  said  Viola,  pulling  up  with  difficulty. 

A  tall  figure  detached  itself  from  a  thicket.  "I 
don't  blame  you  in  the  least,"  remarked  a  well- 
bred  voice,  with  every  intonation  of  respect. 
"I've  said  it  myself  since  I've  been  looking  for  you. 
You  evidently  forgot  that  we  were  to  ride 
together?" 

Harold  Gaunt  miraculously  and  undesirably 
appearing,  came  over  to  Viola.  A  tide  of  crimson 
swept  her  face. 

"1  don't  think  I  ever  said  that  before.  It — it 
was  jerked  out  of  me — by  Eileen.  I  haven't  a 
hair  pin — not  one,  they  were  jerked  out,  too!" 

"I  had  no  right  here  spying  on  you  with  the 
hateful  pervasiveness  of  relatives.  You  had  for 
gotten  my  existence  yesterday,  and  to-day  I  in 
terrupt  your  most  private  opinions.  Forgive  me !" 

His  blue  eyes  looked  up  at  her  with  an  imp  of 
mischief  dancing  in  them.  As  he  looked,  the  imp 
disappeared. 

"Won't  you  dismount?  At  least  I  can  find  your 
hat!"  He  took  Eileen's  bridle,  but  Viola,  dis 
regarding  his  outstretched  hand,  gave  a  quick 
jump  and  was  beside  him. 

"I  tried  to  give  you  a  wrong  impression,  Cousin 
Harold.  I  always  swear.  Aunt  has  had  a  dreadful 
time  with  me.  Pamela  never  does.  If  you  don't 
mind,  let's  get  in  the  shade." 

[37] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


They  moved  forward,  under  a  great  oak.  A 
little  breeze  shivered  and  whispered  in  its 
branches,  and  swung  a  spray  of  mistletoe  above 
their  heads. 

"Do  you  mind,  Viola,  if  I  don't  get  your  hat,  at 
once,  and  would  you  please  sit  just  there?" 

"Of  course.    But  why?" 

"I  am  going  to  lecture  you.  YouVe  told  me  a 
fib  to-day,  and  you  acted  one  last  night.  You  are 
not  a  Suffragette  and  you  do  not  swear.  Why  are 
you  trying  to  fool  me?"  His  voice  to  his  own  ears 
sounded  hurt,  and  angry.  She  was  such  a  lovely, 
lovely  thing,  with  her  shining  hair  veiling  her,  and 
her  dark  eyes  raised  to  his.  The  breeze  gave  an 
extra  tug  at  the  mistletoe. 

Moving  closer  to  Viola,  he  asked  again:  "Why, 
Viola,  do  you  dislike  me,  and  avoid  me?" 

"But  I  don't— I  didn't." 

"Then  admit,  you  are  not  a  three  bottle  man!" 
He  gave  a  short,  eager  laugh. 

Lady  Adela's  piteous  face  floated  before  Viola. 
She  spoke  slowly  and  precisely,  trying  to  recall  the 
precepts  of  militants. 

"Don't  be  absurd.  I'm  unfortunate  enough  to 
be  a  woman  in  England,  but  I  take  all  the  privi 
leges  of  your  sex — that  I  care  to.  As  to  liking  or 
disliking  you,  why  should  I?  I'm  perfectly 
indifferent  to  all  men." 

There  was  silence  that  throbbed,  then  Gaunt's 
voice  speaking  gently:  "You  are  indifferent 
always?  Then  you  won't  mind  this,  will  you? 

[38] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


And  it  will  give  me  a  great  deal  of  pleasure!" 
Stooping  quickly,  he  took  Viola's  chin  in  his  hand, 
and  bending  his  head,  kissed  her  full  on  her 
mouth. 

The  mistletoe  bough  stirred  in  the  wind,  turned 
its  pearly  blossoms  to  the  sun  and  expanded. 
Gaunt  reached  up  and  broke  a  spray  from  it.  He 
offered  it  to  Viola. 

"One  of  my  excuses — my — my — only  one,"  he 
stammered. 

For  all  of  his  effort  of  nonchalance,  his  breath 
came  quickly.  The  touch  of  Viola's  lips  had  been 
like  snow  that  had  left  fire  behind  it. 

"You  will  forgive  me,  Viola?  You  must — it  was 
horribly  cheeky." 

The  Honorable  Viola  Mordaunt  had  turned  her 
back  to  her  cousin  and  was  braiding  her  hair  with 
trembling  hands.  Two  scarlet  spots  burned  in  her 
cheeks.  The  braid  completed  she  turned  to  him. 
"Eileen,  please."  Her  young  voice  was  not  quite 
steady.  A  hot  wave  of  shame  went  over  Gaunt. 
His  instinct  of  the  gentleman  cried  out  at  him. 
He  brought  her  horse  at  once,  and  mounted  her. 
The  touch  of  the  small  boot,  in  his  hand,  made  him 
feel  a  cad. 

"Dear  Viola,  you  must  listen  to  me.  I'm  fresh 
from  the  plains.  You  don't  know  what  that  means. 
There  have  been  four  of  us  in  Kairpur — four 
Englishmen,  the  rest  natives.  And  the  land  is 
parched,  like  a  man  in  fever,  when  it  isn't  rotting 
in  the  rains.  I've  had  five  years  of  it.  And  now — 

[39] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 

England — home — has  gone  to  my  head.  I've  been 
a  lout,  a  fool — "  He  broke  off  angrily. 

"Come,"  said  Viola,  in  a  small  voice,  "if  we  are 
to  have  any  tea,  we  must  make  haste." 

Gaunt  flung  himself  on  his  horse  and  followed 
her. 

"Do  tell  me,"  she  continued,  "about  that 
curious  place — or  rather  about  what  you  did  there. 
Aunt  said  that  you  had  the  V.  C."  She  turned 
her  head  and  looked  him  full  in  the  face.  "Is  it 
given,  Cousin  Harold,  for  bravery,  or  for  fool- 
hardiness?" 


[40] 


CHAPTER  V 

Turned  towards  home,  the  horses  went  well 
together.  The  swift  motion  of  Eileen  gave  Viola 
occupation  for  her  hands  as  well  as  her  thoughts. 
Red  spots  still  burned  on  her  cheeks,  but  she  was 
determined  to  treat  this  affair  as  a  woman  of  the 
world  would  treat  it.  To  be  that,  to  present  the 
polished  surface  of  an  accomplished  mondaine,  had 
been  one  of  Viola's  youthful  and  secret  ambitions. 
And  that  ambition  had  been  fired  by  her  season  in 
town.  There  she  had  seen  and  admired  smart 
women,  and  elegant  women,  whose  poised  manner 
had  reflected  the  appearance  of  their  lives.  They 
had  been  nice  to  her — not  too  nice,  because  they 
had  enchanting  affairs  of  their  own  that  had  their 
real  interest,  and  which,  in  a  subtle  way,  Viola  had 
felt  were  quite  unconnected  with  women.  They 
had  shown  her  a  certain  graciousness  that  had  not 
been  without  challenge,  and  for  that  reason  was 
potent.  Viola  longed  to  acquire  the  aura  that 
surrounded  her  new  acquaintances. 

She  had  made  an  impression,  Evelyn  Malloring 
had  insisted,  on  Ian  Mclvor,  but  the  very  real 
modesty  that  was  Viola's  had  laughed  at  her 
friend.  Mclvor  had  been  kind,  sympathetic,  but 
remote,  surely,  from  her  distressingly  youthful 
personality.  Viola  hated  the  incoherence  of  her 

[41] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


youth.  It  was  evidently  because  of  her  childish 
appearance  that  Gaunt  had  dared  to  kiss  her— 
hair  down  and  all  she  had  looked  a  kid.  He 
should  learn,  if  she  could  manage  it,  his  mistake. 

So  Viola  listened,  demurely,  after  her  first  kiss, 
and  stilled  with  difficulty  many  and  surprising 
sensations. 

Harold  Gaunt,  his  blue  eyes  on  her  face,  talked 
in  a  very  un-English  way.  He  was  quite  accus 
tomed  to  doing  his  part  in  conversation,  in  fact, 
had  often  cause  to  regret  a  facile  power  to  please, 
and  attach  to  himself  people  in  whom  he  had  not 
the  slightest  interest.  When  that  interest  was 
held,  however,  he  could  be  an  observing  as  well  as 
an  animated  young  man;  and  he  now  understood 
Viola's  precocious  handling  of  the  situation.  He 
had  seen  young  girls  in  India  imitate  the  manner 
of  older,  and  much  admired  ladies,  and  now,  as 
then,  he  had  known  quite  clearly  that  it  was  the 
manner  and  not  the  thing  that  made  it,  that  was 
marvelously  reproduced. 

So  he  told  Viola  of  his  loneliness,  of  his  hard 
ships,  of  the  time  he  had  been  wounded  by  a 
native  that  had  run  amuck.  Of  how  he,  Gaunt, 
had  stopped,  struggled  with,  and  finally  killed  the 
man,  after  being  stabbed,  and  had  found  some 
government  papers  on  him. 

Viola's  imagination  had  kept  step  with  his  story. 
She  saw  the  man,  streaked  with  sweat,  running  in 
the  white  dust  of  the  road,  as  a  mad  thing  runs. 
She  saw  that  flight  checked,  and  two  figures  in  the 

[42] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


dust — a  black  hand  with  a  knife  poised,  its  swift 
descent,  blood  oozing,  welling,  pouring  from  its 
mark.  The  black  hand  raised  again — but  held. 
Another  hand,  white — red  streaked — catching, 
forcing,  breaking  its  hold — the  gleam  of  the  knife 
again,  a  cry,  a  figure  of  horror  springing  into  the 
air — falling,  collapsing,  shuddering  to  the  earth — 
lying  there — still. 

Viola  felt  enveloped  by  the  fetid  air  of  Kairpur. 
Through  its  clinging  languor  she  saw  her  cousin, 
bending  over  and  searching  the  body  that  he  had 
slain.  Searching  it,  touching  it,  till  he  found  the 
papers,  then  turning,  in  the  breathless  air,  and 
under  the  baleful  sun  to  make  his  way  home, 
alone,  fainting,  staining  the  dust  with  scarlet. 

Gaunt  stopped  in  surprise,  for  Viola  had  uttered 
a  little  cry  and  turned  a  white  face  towards 
him. 

"What  is  it,  Viola  ?  Did  something  startle  you  ?" 
He  checked  his  horse  and  looked  on  either  side  of 
the  country  road.  The  afternoon  was  deepening 
towards  its  close,  blue  shadows  mingled  with  the 
aspiring  and  acrid  smoke  of  burning  leaves.  A 
crimson  sun  was  dying  in  the  heart  of  a  pure  sky 
that  preserved  miraculously  its  opalescent  inno 
cence.  As  Gaunt  looked  at  the  heavens,  they 
symbolized  to  him  what  love  might  be  in  the  heart 
of  a  young  girl. 

Viola's  voice,  natural  now,  came  to  him.  "Oh, 
it's  nothing,  Cousin  Harold — but  how  horrible!  to 
kill  that  man — and  how — did  you  get  home?" 

[43] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


"It  was  a  nasty  thing  for  him,  poor  beggar! 
But  don't  waste  your  sympathy  on  me.  It's  hazy 
in  my  mind  about  getting  back  to  quarters — I  had 
a  go  of  fever,  but  all  that  was  luck,  don't  you  see — 
sheer  luck — it  brought  me  home — that  much 
sooner."  He  let  his  eyes  rest  on  her  face  that  was 
not  quite  composed,  and  that  held  a  delicate 
eagerness  of  pity. 

"But  who  nursed  you?" 

"An  old  coolie — as  long  as  my  tobacco  lasted." 
Gaunt  gave  a  short  laugh. 

"And  then?"  persisted  Viola. 

"My  wound  healed,  the  rains  came,  and  the 
doctor  with  them.  You  have  been  more  than 
patient — this  can't  possibly  have  interested  you, 
my  beastly  maundering  about  myself." 

"You  made  me  see  that  place — you  made  me 
feel  your  loneliness,  your  isolation,  the  dead  air, 
and  the  sickly  rain."  Viola  cleared  her  throat, 
with  an  odd  little  sound  of  decision.  She  stooped 
to  her  stirrup  and  touched  a  perfectly  adjusted 
buckle.  Under  her  long  lashes  a  faint  flush 
showed  itself.  "I  can't  bear  to  think  of  you  there 
ill,  with  only  a  coolie  to  see  to  you." 

The  horses  were  on  soft  loam  now,  and  going 
quietly  like  good  comrades.  Dense  shrubberies 
made  a  dim  twilight  about  them.  Gaunt  put  out  his 
hand  and  held  the  bridle  of  Viola's  horse,  and  the 
animal  stopped  at  once,  turning  a  surprised  head. 

"Viola,  please,  will  my  sins  be  forgiven  me?  I 
must  know  before  we  go  home." 

[44] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


Viola  looked  up,  startled.  The  manners  of  the 
admired  ladies  of  London  were  forgotten.  She 
was  aware  of  Gaunt's  presence,  of  the  anxiety  and 
intention  of  his  gaze,  as  she  had  never  before  felt 
conscious  of  anyone's,  except,  for  a  mistaken 
moment  at  "Otello,"  when  she  had  yielded  surely 
to  an  over-stimulated  imagination,  and  fancied 
Mclvor  in  sympathetic  accord  with  her  tragic 
mood.  But,  raising  her  eyes  now  to  her  cousin's, 
she  forgot  that  incident,  as  she  had  forgotten 
desired  and  imitated  mannerisms  of  speech.  Sin 
cerity  of  expression  shone  like  a  light  in  her  eyes, 
and  Gaunt  answered  that  sincerity.  Dismount 
ing,  he  went  to  Viola's  side.  A  few  rooks  flying 
homeward  made  the  only  sound  that  broke  the 
stillness  of  the  green  and  exquisite  twilight  that 
enfolded  them.  Against  the  dark  shrubberies 
Viola's  white  face  looked  like  a  pale  exotic  flower — 
but  a  flower  surely  with  a  soul. 

"Little  cousin — little  girl — don't  let  me  frighten 
you.  Since  I  saw  you  last  night,  I've  changed — 
I'm  not  the  same  man — "  His  voice,  which  had 
been  curiously  level  in  tone,  broke,  went  on 
rapidly,  "I'm  not  old — Viola — but  ten  years  of  my 
youth  have  been  wasted — swallowed  by  routine; 
ten  years  of  youth — think  of  it,  Viola — spent  in 
loneliness — and  the  plains.  I've  had  my  dream 
of  love,  of  companionship — surely  every  man  has 
had  that!  But  it  has  been  nothing  but  a  dream. 
You  welcomed  me  last  night,  Viola — you  made  me 
feel  that  I  had  really  come  home,  perhaps  without 

[45] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 

meaning  it — but  you  did!  You  did — And  to 
day — "  he  drew  an  uneven  breath,  and  moved 
nearer,  but  did  not  touch  her.  It's  like  this  to  me, 
Viola.  A  nature  that  has  never  loved  is  like  the 
waste  places,  the  solitudes  in  which  I've  lived — 
abominable.  I've  been  like  them,  but — I'm  not 
that  any  more!  You've  made  me  different, 
already — in  a  day." 

A  wave  of  emotion  swept  over  him.  He  covered 
his  face  with  his  hands.  He  felt  like  a  worshipper 
that  had  come  to  kneel,  but  had  been  filled  with  a 
spirit  fiery,  ungovernable,  that  had  proclaimed 
itself  through  his  lips.  And  by  so  doing  had 
shocked,  perhaps  offended,  the  mysterious  thing 
he  worshipped.  For  it  was  the  youth,  the  in 
nocence  of  Viola  that  had  kindled  this  flame, 
at  her  shrine. 

Viola,  astonished,  shaken,  looked  at  his  dark 
head  bowed  before  her.  The  sense  of  his  nearness, 
his  emotion,  gave  her  an  intolerable  feeling,  half 
pity,  half  repulsion.  She  put  her  hand  on  his  hair, 
lightly. 

Instantly  he  looked  up.  "You  are  not  angry, 
little  Viola?"  His  hand,  strong  and  full  of  heat, 
took  hers.  At  his  touch  that  which  had  been  pity 
in  Viola  vanished,  and  that  which  had  been 
repulsion  vanished  also.  She  felt  composure  like  a 
torn  mantle  slipping  away  from  her,  and  she 
longed  to  grasp  it  and  hold  it  together  with  some 
familiar  and  commonplace  words.  But  they  would 
not  come.  She  took  her  hand  from  his,  touched 

[46] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


Eileen   with   her   heel,    and    the   horse,    startled, 
indignant,  sprang  forward. 

The  bell  for  even-song  from  the  church  in  Little 
Harley  sent  the  sweet  appeal  of  its  voice  to  float 
in  the  evening  air.  The  sound  held  a  certain  note 
of  authority.  The  authority  that  lives  in  simplicity 
and  in  goodness  and  that  makes  a  harmony  of  its 
own.  As  Viola  listened  to  the  old  bell,  her  mood 
changed.  She  checked  Eileen,  and  waited  for 
Harold,  and  they  rode  home  abreast. 


[47 


CHAPTER  VI 

Left  to  herself  Lady  Adela  had  spent  a  delightful 
day,  until  four  in  the  afternoon.  At  that  hour,  the 
servants,  and  especially  Melon — who  was  now 
housekeeper — saw  her  enter  her  own  room  with 
relief.  Because  she  was  a  good  mistress.  Lady 
Adela  was  an  enquiring  one;  so  investigations  were 
rigidly  conducted.  Safe  in  her  room,  however,  she 
had  locked  the  door,  taken  a  small  key  from  a 
closed  triptych  on  a  Boule  table,  and  with  it 
opened,  stealthily,  a  carved  rosewood  chest  that 
contained  childish  souvenirs  and  photographs, 
which  had  been  repudiated  by  her  adult  but  by  no 
means  mature  family. 

Selecting  a  particularly  offensive  picture  of 
Pam,  mercilessly  represented  with  her  fair  hair 
strained  from  her  high  forehead,  and  her  pale  eyes 
stony  above  a  smirking  mouth,  Lady  Adela  dived 
again  amongst  her  treasures,  and  brought  up  this 
time  a  photograph  of  Harold  Gaunt.  Placing  the 
two  young  faces  next  each  other,  Lady  Adela  had 
sunk  into  a  comfortable  chair,  and  yielded  to  her 
imagination.  Her  face  relaxed  into  lines  of  con 
tentment  but  rarely  seen  on  the  faces  of  those  who 
dwell  exclusively  in  the  bleak  regions  of  reality. 

She  saw  Pam  regarding  her  fiance  with  a  look  of 
girlish  admiration — she  saw  that  deepen  to  a  fond 

[48] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


and  doting  expression,  not  perhaps  to  have  been 
easily  achieved  by  Pam,  but  justified  by  its  object, 
Harold,  wrapped  in  the  reserve  and  majesty  of  the 
British  husband. 

A  knock  on  her  door  brought  Lady  Adela,  a 
rejoicing  grandparent,  untimely  from  the  christen 
ing  of  their  first  son.  Rising  reluctantly,  she 
passed  her  handkerchief  over  her  face  to  remove 
from  it  any  lingering  cathedral  expression. 

Clarkson  waited  with  three  cards.  Lady  Mor- 
daunt,  flushed,  with  hair  untidy,  looked  at  them, 
took  them  with  a  sigh  and  immediately  felt  guilty 
of  inhospitality. 

"I'll  be  down  at  once,  Clarkson,"  she  announced 
firmly. 

"'Lady  Malloring,"  she  read,  "  'Mr.  Ian 
Mclvor/  and — really!  how  very  extraordinary!'* 

Over  the  third  card  poor  Lady  Adela  exclaimed: 

"How  very  extraordinary!  'Madame  du 
Guenic.'  ' 

And  then  Lady  Adela's  imagination,  after  giving 
her  pleasure,  froze  her  with  fear;  the  syllables  she 
spelled  were  only  too  familiar,  but  had  been  con 
signed  to  the  Limbo,  where  the  ghosts  of  family 
skeletons  walk  forlorn,  but  hopeful  of  a  resurrec 
tion  of  the  flesh. 

Moistening  her  dry  lips  and  putting  a  hand  that 
further  disarranged  her  hair  to  her  head,  Lady 
Adela  entered  her  own  drawing-room  with  decision. 

Lady  Malloring,  victimized  by  a  dressmaker 
devoid  of  conscience,  came  towards  her,  heavily 

[49] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


upholstered  in  a  rich  material  of  a  really  terrible 
shade  of  green.  Her  large  hat  supported  a  forest 
of  feathers,  through  which  one  glimpsed  brocaded 
fruits,  gilded  vegetables,  and  was  led  to  hope  for 
Paul  and  Virginia  in  their  earthly  paradise. 

Lady  Malloring,  as  happily  unconscious  of  being 
badly  dressed  as  she  was  charmingly  so  when  well 
turned  out,  took  her  hostess's  hand. 

"This  is  an  avalanche,  Lady  Adela,  but  don't  be 
unduly  puffed  up,  or  unnecessarily  cast  down.  We 
are  really  calling  on  your  cottages — ' 

Mclvor  came  forward  and  interrupted.  "Please, 
Lady  Mordaunt,  it  is  quite  true  that  my  interest  is 
deeply  centered  on  the  present  condition  of  the 
workingmen  in  dependent  villages,  and  that  yours 
have  an  unusual  record  of  usefulness  and  pros 
perity.  It  is  also  true,"  he  smiled  down  at  her, 
"that  you  would  delight  me  if  you  would  let  me  go 
with  you  into  Little  Horley  and  see  the  methods 
and  condition  of  the  people.  But — "  his  voice 
deepened,  "I  must  be  frank,  my  visit  is  social,  and 
I'm  hoping  you'll  let  me  stop  to  tea." 

Lady  Adela  concealed  her  surprise.  While  in 
London  Mclvor  had  called  several  times,  but  it  had 
seemed  to  her  nothing  more  than  the  politeness  of 
a  young  man  to  one  of  the  season's  generous 
hostesses.  She  had  thought  of  him  as  a  caustic  and 
brilliant  person  devoted  to  disturbing  sociological 
pursuits,  and  attending  her  parties  even  from  a 
sense  of  rigorous  and  unsleeping  duty  towards  his 
fellowman.  From  these  vague  impressions  Lady 

[50] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


Adela  sought  the  reason  of  his  coming,  while  she 
made  all  her  guests  welcome,  with  very  real 
hospitality. 

Mme.  du  Guenic,  born  Hortense  du  Prez,  eldest 
daughter  of  Baron  du  Prez  and  only  sister  of  Julie, 
Viola's  mother,  was  an  accomplished  femme  du 
monde.  Though  she  was  now  approaching  her 
fiftieth  year — that  year  which  seems  to  toll  a  bell 
in  the  lives  of  frivolous  women,  and  to  set  a 
definite  limit  to  that  frivolity — her  rather  full 
erect  figure,  dark  hair,  and  brown  Latin  eyes, 
languorous,  yet  full  of  light,  expressive,  as  well  as 
receptive,  gave  out  to  the  world  a  personality  full 
of  power  to  attract.  She  was  counting  on  that 
power  to  help  her  now,  in  the  desolate  time  of  her 
life.  If  it  could  secure  for  her  the  companionship, 
for  awhile  at  least,  of  her  niece,  Viola,  she  felt  that 
her  own  connection  with  youth  would  be  renewed; 
that  her  being  would  be  refreshed  at  the  well 
springs  of  life. 

Viola's  birth  had  been  to  this  woman  a  tre 
mendous  affront.  The  only  fact  that  had  enabled 
her  to  bear  it  with  any  inner  composure  was,  that 
for  the  new  life  which  had  been  given  another  had 
been  taken.  She  had  made  at  the  time  no  attempt 
to  see  the  child,  but  had  heard,  with  infinite  relief, 
of  its  reception  and  adoption  into  the  English 
family. 

But  that  had  been  years  ago,  when  she  was 
young  and  had  not  been  alone,  had  not  known 
of  the  waste  places  of  the  soul  in  which  no  voice 

[51] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


but  that  of  self  is  heard.  She  had  lately  heard  that 
voice  and  she  was  afraid. 

To  Lady  Adela,  Mme.  du  Guenic  presented  a 
delicate  but  suggestive  surface — the  graceful  and 
charming  talk  of  a  woman  of  the  world,  with  the 
subtlety  of  a  proffered  intimacy. 

Poor  Lady  Adela,  who  had  lived  in  dread  of  this 
event  for  many  years,  until  the  last,  and  had 
endowed  Viola's  maternal  aunt  with  the  repulsive 
attributes  of  those  who  can  take  from  us  what  we 
love,  felt  remorse  for  the  mental  injustice  she  had 
done,  and  in  her  anxiety  to  make  amends,  met 
Mme.  du  Guenic  more  than  half  way  with  cordial 
ity.  And  in  so  doing  armed  her  adversary  with  a 
knowledge  of  her  own  simplicity  and  goodness. 

"You  must  be  very  tired,  all  of  you."  Lady 
Adela  addressed  her  guests  with  a  fluttering  sigh. 
It  did  seem  too  much,  to  be  caught  alone  with  this 
astonishing  trio. 

Lady  Evelyn,  with  her  flair  for  a  situation,  had 
immediately  sensed  one,  and  was  aflame  with 
curiosity.  Drawing  Mclvor  to  the  window  in 
pretense  of  admiration  for  its  disclosures,  she  tried 
by  the  use  of  interrogative  and  raised  eyebrows, 
and  a  repetition,  in  the  voice  of  a  conspirator,  of 
the  words,  "The  French  aunt — The  Faubourg,  San 
Germain,"  to  share  it  with  him.  He  became,  how 
ever,  merely  irritated  and  bewildered. 

Seeing  the  two  that  were,  for  her  purposes,  de 
cidedly  de  trop,  engaged  together,  Mme.  du  Guenic 
turned  a  handsome  shoulder  towards  them,  and 

[52] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


fixed  her  brown  eyes  that  held  the  light  of  a  Madeira 
wine  upon  Lady  Adela.  Her  low  and  beautiful 
voice  took  another  quality — the  proffered  intimacy 
that  had  been  in  it,  deepened  to  confidence. 

"I  have  so  often  thought  of  you  in  your  English 
home — so  longed,  and  yet  feared  to  present  myself. 
You  might  easily  have  felt  it  an  intrusion — you 
may  feel  it  so  now.  There  are  things  between  us 
that  are  impayable.  But  there  is  also  Viola — " 

Mme.  du  Guenic  pressed  her  hands  together,  the 
rings  on  them  cutting  into  her  flesh.  She  con 
tinued,  speaking  rapidly. 

"You  took  her  at  first,  out  of  charity — it  was 
generous — it  was  noble  of  you!  In  Paris  there 
were  sore  hearts  that  secretly  blessed  you  for  that. 
I  thought  of  Viola  on  her  saint's  day,  when  she  was 
a  child,  with  yearning,  but  also  with  shame,  and 
that  was  my  sin.  I  have  been  punished  for  it. 
You  are  a  happy  mother — Ah,  I  know  it.  Your 
children  are  with  you — my  husband  and  my  only 
son  are  dead.  I  am  quite  alone." 

Lady  Adela  gave  an  incoherent  murmur  of 
pity.  The  French  woman  made  a  gesture,  as 
of  one  accepting  possible,  and  even  welcome 
sympathy. 

"My  home  is  closed — now.  I  am  quite  free — 
living  sur  la  branche.  I  have  come  to  beg  from  you 
— from  your  generosity.  Let  me  have  Viola,  if  she 
will  come  to  me — for  six  little  months.  We  will 
travel — Paris,  Vienna,  Rome,  Sicily — it  may 
amuse  her!  I  know  them  like  my  pocket.  And 

[53] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


then  back  to  you.  Ah,  I  should  be  thankful — 
grateful  beyond  words.  Please!" 

Lady  Adela,  painfully  conscious  of  the  rigid 
attitude  of  attention  taken  by  Evelyn  Malloring's 
back,  touched  by  the  appeal  made  to  her  humani 
ties,  and  overwhelmed  by  the  thought  of  answering 
that  appeal,  greeted  the  diversion  made  by  tea, 
with  eagerness. 

The  two  at  the  window  were  obliged  to  come 
over,  and  the  talk  became  general.  Mclvor  guided 
it  safely,  if  a  trifle  didactically,  amongst  the 
dwellings  of  the  slate  workers  in  Glas  Ogven. 

Mme.  du  Guenic  listened  to  him  with  delightful 
sympathy,  interjecting,  while  she  watched  his 
face,  expressions  of  interest. 

Lady  Adela,  vastly  relieved,  was  able  to  find  out 
from  Evelyn  Malloring  that  permission  had  been 
granted  for  the  opening  of  a  bazaar,  the  proceeds 
to  be  given  to  a  little  band  of  devoted  men  and 
women  who  were  taking  their  religion  (incidentally 
it  was  Lady  Adela's  religion,  too)  to  northern 
India.  Once  arrived  with  it  safely,  their  intention 
was  to  insist,  with  of  course  tact,  on  its  adoption  by 
the  natives.  So  that  those  who  went  now  un 
ashamed  in  nakedness  and  beads  might  wrap 
themselves  in  embarrassment  and  calico.  Lady 
Adela  was  very  pleased  that  the  bazaar  had 
received  royal  sanction;  she  sought  Lady  Evelyn's 
evasive  eye  to  express  her  satisfaction. 

But  at  that  moment  Viola  and  Harold  Gaunt 
came  in,  together. 

[54] 


CHAPTER  VII 

It  was  ten  months  later.  A  golden  afternoon 
dreamed  itself  away  in  Nice.  From  the  terraced 
and  enclosed  gardens  of  the  Villa  Atalanta,  Viola 
sat  and  watched  the  sea.  Two  books  were  beside 
her,  on  a  small  tea  table — one  a  volume  of  the 
sonnets  of  Ronsard,  open  at  the  one  beginning, 
"Cueillez  des  aujourdhui  les  roses  de  la  vie." 
Tennyson's  "Princess"  held  an  envelope  that 
marked,  "Tears,  idle  tears."  As  she  had  read  the 
verses,  Viola's  eyes  had  been  suffused  with  tears. 
She  had  been  obliged  to  put  the  book  down. 

Orange  trees  in  bloom,  and  standing  in  green 
painted  tubs,  breathed  their  fragrance  into  the  air 
that  was  cooled  by  the  spray  from  a  fountain 
fashioned  in  Italian  marble,  and  representing  a 
stout  and  charming  child  controlling  a  sea  monster. 
Water  gushed  from  the  mouth  of  the  fish,  sparkled 
in  the  bright  air,  and  fell  into  a  mossy  pool  with  a 
delicate  and  musical  sound. 

On  the  terrace  below,  oleander  bushes  bloomed 
— their  rose-colored  flowers  vivid  against  the  silver 
gray  of  olive  trees. 

From  her  place  Viola  looked  out  over  the  detail 
of  the  garden  and  the  white  palm-bordered 
Boulevard  des  Anglais,  its  shops  and  casinoes,  to 
the  land-locked  Bay  of  the  Angels.  The  water  was 

[55] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


of  that  blue  that  suggests  the  ideal  of  beauty  to  an 
impressionable  mind — beauty  of  the  sea,  of  the 
heavens,  of  a  soul.  It  was  profoundly  still,  so  still 
that  where  the  water  seemed  to  meet  the  sky  the 
two  were  like  one  ether.  Some  fisher  boats,  their 
lateen  sails  bright  flecks  of  color  on  the  blue,  lay 
idly  waiting  for  a  breeze,  but  the  fishermen  sent 
their  songs  across  the  water. 

And  in  this  calm  Viola  tried  to  lose  herself — to 
let  her  mind  find  peace. 

Mme.  du  Guenic's  plea  had  been  heard,  had 
proved  itself  to  Lady  Adela  not  only  a  blessing  in 
disguise,  but  almost  an  answer  to  prayer.  Viola 
had  gone  to  her  aunt  at  once,  with  an  ardent 
admiration  for  her  very  unusual  attractions,  and 
by  so  doing  had  felt  herself  nearer  that  dear 
romance  of  her  life,  her  mother. 

Lady  Adela,  after  a  week  of  indecision,  had  the 
unusual  but  delightful  experience  of  obeying  at  the 
same  time  the  voice  of  conscience  and  the  voice  of 
desire.  For  with  Viola's  departure  with  Mme.  du 
Guenic,  Pamela  and  Anne  had  been  given  their 
chance;  they  would  no  longer  be  outshone  in  their 
own  home,  and  after  the  fashion  of  lesser  lights 
when  a  greater  is  withdrawn,  they  made  a  very 
charming  glow  of  their  own — a  glow  suitable  to 
hearthsides.  And  Lady  Adela,  in  spite  of  a  very 
real  longing  for  Viola  who  had  always  been  a  sweet 
and  sympathetic  companion  to  her,  could  not  help 
a  feeling  of  satisfaction  at  having  her  girls'  young 
faces  no  longer  compared  with  Viola's. 

[56] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


Mme.  du  Guenic  had  been  entranced  with 
Viola's  beauty.  She  enjoyed  the  admiration  and 
envy  it  aroused  as  much  as  though  it  had  been 
created  by  the  possession  of  a  unique  jewel.  To  be 
guardian  and  aunt  was  an  entirely  new  sensation. 

There  had  been  wonderful  shopping  expeditions 
in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix.  The  weary  voices  of  dress 
makers  and  mannequins  had  uttered  their  ecsta 
sies,  with  a  note  of  sincerity  surely  refreshing  to 
their  own  souls. 

The  Faubourg  had  opened  its  doors,  if  not  its 
heart,  and  Viola  had  sat  through  rigidly  formal 
dinners  given  to  her  aunt,  with  a  great  deal  of 
discomfort.  The  curiosity  felt  about  herself, 
though  by  no  means  evident  in  the  manners  of  any 
of  Viola's  new  acquaintances,  was  however  so 
active  in  their  minds  as  to  make  her  feel  that  she 
was  suddenly  and  for  them  obligingly  made  of 
glass.  Their  surprise  and  interest  had  been  for  her 
remarkable  and  lovely  resemblance  to  her  mother. 
Viola  had  felt  it  called  forth  by  some  youthful 
gaucherie  of  her  own. 

Mme.  du  Guenic,  often  amused  at  Viola's 
sufferings,  had  told  her  kindly  that  she  lacked 
confidence.  And  with  the  delightful  anxiety  of 
youth  to  please  where  it  admires,  Viola  tried  to 
enter  into  her  aunt's  by  no  means  simple  life,  with 
as  little  disturbance  to  it  as  possible.  And  she  did 
very  well.  For  six  months  Tante  Hortense  felt 
pride,  amusement,  affection  of  a  comfortable 
quality  in  her  presence;  also,  a  profound  sensation 

[57] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


of  personal  nobility,  strange  and  a  little  oppressive. 
These  periods  of  gentle  melancholy  descended 
usually  upon  Mme.  du  Guenic,  after  she  had  been 
made  the  confidante  of  some  youth  or  man  infatu 
ated  with  Viola.  There  is  no  age  at  which  some 
women  can  bear  the  praises  of  others.  Instead  of 
linking  her  with  youth,  Viola  placed  her  definitely 
amongst  those  whose  day,  of  a  kind,  is  over. 
Once  more  the  hand  of  jealousy  thrust  itself  into 
Viola's  life. 

One  evening  at  the  end  of  the  six  months,  Viola 
was  sitting  in  a  bedroom  of  her  aunt's  house  on  the 
Boulevard  Haussemann.  She  was  enjoying  the 
luxury  of  solitude  at  the  hour  of  Ave  Marie.  The 
scent  of  lilac,  rising  from  the  freshly  watered  and 
enclosed  garden,  distilled  itself  through  half-opened 
blinds,  and  from  the  street  came  in  a  strong 
but  untrained  tenor's  "Un  peau  d'amour," 
sung  with  the  enthusiasm  it  deserved.  The  little 
tune  with  its  wistful  refrain  and  graceful  plaint 
suited  the  delicate  sentimentality  of  her  mood. 
For  Viola  had  received  that  afternoon  an  offer  of 
marriage.  It  had  come  from  Ian  Mclvor  in  Glas 
Ogven.  It  lay,  with  a  sort  of  dignity,  in  her  lap. 
Its  simple,  rather  grave  expressions  of  devotion, 
had  not  disturbed  Viola  with  any  vehemence  of 
passion.  Mclvor  seemed  offering  her  rather 
gracefully,  but  certainly  with  no  desperate  ardor, 
the  most  important  place  in  his  life.  And  he  let 
her  know  that  it  was  a  life  of  importance  to  many. 
Viola  read  it  twice,  then  slipped  it  into  its  envelope. 

[58] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


Tante  Hortense,  coming  in  before  dressing,  put  the 
lights  on  rather  crossly. 

She  had  spent  the  afternoon,  fruitlessly,  at  a 
reception  given  by  the  wife  of  the  Danish  minister, 
who  had  made  a  discovery  of  some  South  American 
musicians.  The  musicians  had  been  placed  in  a 
remote  conservatory,  but  had  got  out  of  control, 
and  ruined  all  talk. 

"It  was  banal — odious."  Mme.  du  Guenic 
shrugged.  "I  was  obliged  to  take  tea — I  couldn't 
simply  sit  and  be  deafened,  while  a  bore  screamed 
at  me."  She  straightened  her  handsome  but  broad 
shoulders  resentfully. 

"At  your  age  all  things  are  possible.  At  mine — 
an  extra  wafer  makes  one  thing  inevitable.  I  do 
not  wish  to  end  my  life  describing  a  circle." 

Mme.  du  Guenic,  denying  herself  the  luxury  of 
sitting  down,  in  penance  for  the  wafer,  stood  over 
Viola  and  noticed  the  letter  in  her  lap. 

"Ah,  mail,  I  see.  That  reminds  me.  The  excel 
lent  Aunt  Adela  is  on  the  eve  of  a  great  happiness." 
Tante  Hortense's  brown  eyes  shone  wickedly. 

"Do  tell  me?" 

"It  is  the  large  daughter — the  one  with  the  sub 
stantial  nose,  and  I've  no  doubt,  character.  She 
looked  so  thick  to  me."  Mme.  du  Guenic  mused 
pensively.  "I'm  sure  she's  solid  all  the  way 
through.  At  any  rate,  a  husband  has  been  secured, 
or  is  about  to  be  secured.  What's  his  name — 
Gaunt — Gaunt — ?" 

"Harold  Gaunt?" 

[59] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


"That's  it.  Not  much  of  a  parti — but  they 
seem  very  happy  about  it.  Your  cousin  will  write 
you,  when  things  are  settled.  This  of  course  is  in 
confidence.  Tell  me,  what  was  your  news?" 

Viola  did  not  answer  at  once.  She  was  feeling 
like  one  in  whose  face  a  familiar  door,  the  door  of 
home,  has  been  closed.  Her  aunt  moved  im 
patiently,  and  Viola  managed  a  small  voice: 

"Why,  it's — it's  nothing,  Tante  Hortense,  at 
least,  you  may  read  it,  if  you  like.  I'm  sure  Mr. 
Mclvor — would  expect  you  to.  For  you  are  my 
guardian  now,  aren't  you?"  Tears  struggled  in 
that  small  voice,  but  Mme.  du  Guenic  ignored 
them. 

"Of  course,  child,  of  course,  you  must  show  me 
your  letters.  Mclvor?  Didn't  I  meet  him?  Tall 
— dark — cottages  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Viola.  "Cottages — and  slate  quar 
ries."  She  gave  the  letter  at  once. 

Mme.  du  Guenic  read  it,  very  carefully,  then  she 
looked  at  her  niece  with  an  appraising  eye. 

"He  wants  to  come  and  see  you  here.  Why  not 
let  him?" 

"Why,  but  Tante — he  would  expect — he's  in 
Wales,  you  know." 

"What  of  it  ?    Let  him  come — and  we  shall  see." 

With  a  sudden  and  sweet  smile,  Mme.  du 
Guenic  pressed  the  girl  to  her  for  a  moment. 
Viola,  unused  to  any  demonstration,  received  it, 
however,  with  gratitude.  Held  by  her  aunt's  arms, 
enfolded  surely  by  her  love,  Viola  felt  herself 

[60] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


protected,  no  longer  alone.  And  she  longed  to  give 
obedience  to  her  protector. 

Four  months  later  Viola  Mordaunt  and  Ian 
Mclvor  were  married  quietly  from  the  Boulevard 
Haussemann,  and  went  to  spend  their  honeymoon 
in  the  Villa  Atalanta,  at  Nice.  As  Viola  watched 
the  sea  on  the  day  of  their  arrival,  Mclvor  was  in 
the  town  making  inquiries  for  facilities  that  would 
enable  him  to  receive  mail  daily.  His  absence  from 
Glas  Ogven  had  come  at  a  particularly  bad  time. 
The  demands  for  higher  wages  from  the  slate 
workers  had  reached  a  pitch  of  insistence  no  longer 
to  be  ignored.  And  Mclvor  was  the  last  man  to 
thrust  serious  things,  no  matter  how  uncomfort 
able,  from  his  mind.  But  the  problem  he  was  faced 
with  was,  briefly,  this. 

The  rate  of  production  and  sale  from  the 
quarries  at  present  and  for  the  last  five  years  had 
fallen  below  the  output  for  wages.  If  Mclvor 
closed  them  down,  men  that  were  unfit  for  any 
other  work — and  men  for  whom  he  felt  himself 
in  the  capacity  of  landowner  responsible — would 
be  deprived  of  their  means  of  existence.  On  the 
other  hand,  if  he  granted  their  demands  at  a  still 
greater  personal  loss  to  himself  and  kept  the  men 
on,  he  would  feel  himself  guilty  of  yielding  to 
pressure,  and  by  so  doing  pauperize  the  workers, 
take  from  them  one  of  the  inalienable  rights  of 
man  that  the  laborer  be  worthy  of  his  hire. 

As  he  made  his  arrangements  for  messenger 
service,  Mclvor's  heart  ached  for  his  villagers — 

[61] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


thick-set,  tawny  men  and  women,  in  his  comfort 
able  new  cottages,  out  of  which  they  had  made 
cosy  homes  for  red-faced  babies.  That  the  entire 
village  was  at  present  concentrated  on  him  with 
hatred  and  furious  demand  for  a  very  large  share 
of  his  own  income,  disturbed  Mclvor,  only  as  a 
source  of  anxiety  for  them;  even  on  his  honeymoon 
their  distresses  weighed  upon  him,  and  he  wished 
that  Viola  and  he  could  be  with  them  at  once  to 
help. 

A  plan  of  teaching  them  intensive  farming,  of 
leasing  them  the  land  necessary  for  such  experi 
ments  by  some  arrangement  that  would  make  it 
possible,  if  the  venture  were  moderately  successful, 
for  them  to  repay  him.  Such  a  procedure  would 
reconcile  them  to  the  land  again — Viola  and  he 
would  live  useful  lives  among  a  contented  peas 
antry.  Mclvor  longed  to  leave  this  place  of  idling 
and  to  take  his  wife  to  his  home. 

As  he  left  the  Bureau  de  Telegraf  (where  he  had 
uttered  his  careful,  painfully  correct  French,  with 
an  incisive  and  Britannic  accent,  to  an  attentive 
Swiss  who,  after  listening  patiently,  responded  in 
glib  English),  Mclvor  took  his  way  through  the 
town.  The  people  on  the  small,  palm-bordered 
pavements  interested  him  as  humanity  in  the 
mass  always  did. 

American,  French,  Swiss,  an  occasional  African, 
strolled  with  cosmopolitan  indifference.  Smart 
women  and  men  in  motors  flashed  by,  and  over  the 
hill  to  hidden  villas  and  the  Cafe  de  Paris  opposite 

[621 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


Monte  Carlo.  An  Italian  band,  in  the  Place, 
played  "L'amour  est  un  ouiseau  rebelle,"  with  the 
long  enduring  "Santa  Lucia,"  to  a  drifting  but 
complacent  audience.  In  the  bright  sun,  the  light 
dresses  of  the  women — the  gay  colors  of  their  hats 
and  parasols,  accented  by  the  occasional  dark  coat 
of  a  man — the  air  of  carelessness  with  which  they 
lounged  or  strolled,  struck  a  note  that  was  not 
harmonious  to  Mclvor.  To  sit  in  the  sun,  when  it 
was  not  too  hot,  to  listen  to  love  songs,  to  go, 
later,  and  gamble,  those  were  surely  the  acts  of  the 
people  he  was  among. 

But  Viola  had  longed  to  come  here.  As  he 
thought  of  her  Mclvor's  rather  pale  face  flushed, 
and  a  feeling  of  which  he  was  ashamed  came  over 
him.  If  he  had  obeyed  his  impulse,  he  would  have 
hailed  a  dilapidated  but  hopeful  cocker  that  had 
been  following  him,  and  been  driven  at  once  to  the 
Villa  Atalanta. 

But  he  did  not  yield.  Ascertaining  by  his 
Baedecker  two  possible  ways  of  approach  to  the 
Villa,  he  chose  the  longer  of  the  two,  and  falling 
into  the  stride  with  which  he  was  accustomed  to 
cover  English  miles,  he  started  to  walk  there. 

And  he  put  his  mind  on  the  problems  of  Glas 
Ogven,  and  resolutely  kept  it  there. 

Alone  in  the  garden,  Viola  watched  the  hours 
slip  away.  When  it  was  six  o'clock  her  own  maid, 
Leone,  a  French  girl  that  had  been  with  her  in 
Paris,  and  who  was  puffed  with  pride  and  curiosity 
at  coming  with  "Madame"  on  this  interesting 

[63] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


journey,  appeared  with  tea  and  a  brioche  on  a 
tray.  Her  white  face  wore  an  unnaturally  respect 
able  expression. 

Viola  declined  the  tea,  but  picked  up  her  shady 
white  hat  and  walked  down  the  sanded  path  to  the 
house.  Leone  supplicated. 

"What  gown  to-night,  Madame?  The  white 
Callot?  Madame  est  exquis  in  white!" 

Viola  hesitated.     "Really,  Leone?     I  want  to 
look  well.    You  think  the  white?" 
"Oui,  Madame ,  oui,  certainment!" 
"Very  well,  then,  you  may  put  it  out." 
A  veil  of  deeper  blue  seemed  drawn  over  the 
bay   and   the   sky.      They   withdrew   behind   it. 
Pale    lemon-colored    lights    sprang    out    in    the 
casinoes,  and  larger  golden  globes  pricked  their 
outlines    at    regular    intervals,    from    the    street 
lamps.     Nice  was  stirring  to  its  activities  of  the 
night.     But  it  was  exquisitely  still  in  the  garden 
Viola  looking  up  saw  a  great  tremulous  star  above 
her.     A  childish  rhyme  came  into  her  head,  and 
she  spoke  the  words  aloud: 

"Star  light,  star  bright, 
Very  first  star  I  see  to-night, 
I  wish  I  may,  I  wish  I  might, 
Have  the  wish  I  wish  to-night!" 

For  some  reason  the  last  line  of  the  simple  couplet 
was  very  difficult  to  say.  Viola  faltered.  The 
star  and  the  wish  of  childhood  seemed  equally  far 
away.  Presently  Viola  heard  Mclvor's  voice  in 

[64] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 

the  house  asking  for  her.  A  feeling  of  constraint, 
of  terrible  shyness,  came  to  her  with  the  tones  of  it. 
It  was  impossible  for  her  to  answer  him — she 
longed  to  hide  herself  in  the  shady  and  scented 
mystery  of  the  garden.  But  Mclvor,  inquiring 
from  Leone,  came  out  onto  the  path.  He  had  been 
walking  rapidly  and  a  lock  of  dark  hair  clung  to 
his  forehead.  It  gave  him  an  unusual  expression  of 
youth.  Viola  noticed  it  at  once,  and  some  of  her 
diffidence  left  her.  Mclvor,  seeing  her  white 
figure,  came  up  at  once  and  Viola  turned  to  him. 
He  made  a  gesture  as  though  he  would  take  her 
into  his  arms,  but  she  moved,  or  he  fancied  she 
had — and  he  did  not.  They  did  not  kiss  in  the 
garden  under  the  luminous  star.  But  Viola  spoke 
to  him  at  once. 

"It  is  so  lovely  here,  Ian,  I've  not  half  seen  it. 
Perhaps,  to-morrow,  we  can  explore  it  together — 
our  own  little  demesne,  I  mean.  After  that  there 
will  be  excursions  to  make  into  the  country — 
and — "  she  laughed.  "I  want  to  indulge  a  rooted 
but  sinful  desire — " 

"Viola— sinful— you!" 

"I'm  not  sure  it's  wicked — but  I  know  I  want 
to.  It's  very  banal — to  seasoned  travelers,  but  the 
idea  excites  me."  She  put  her  hand  on  Mclvor's 
tweed  coat,  and  her  voice  sounded  like  a  child's 
coaxing.  "Wouldn't  it  be  fun  for  us  to  go  to 
Monte  Carlo — and — risk  a  little?" 

Mclvor  laughed — then  pulled  his  brows 
together. 

[65] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


"You  ridiculous  child!  Do  you  think  I  would 
let  you  go  into  that  atmosphere  ?  The  place  is  full  of 
riffraff.  Besides,  we  may  not  be  here  so  very  long/* 

"Why,  why  not?  Did  you  have  bad  news?" 
Viola  took  her  hand  from  his  arm,  but  her  voice  no 
longer  sounded  like  a  child's. 

"No,  dear,  nothing  new.  But  you  know  I  am 
worried  about  my  people.  It's  a  very  bad  time  for 
them.  I  feel  we  should  be  there,  not  idling  in  this 
place,  where  people  seem  to  have  very  few  responsi 
bilities.  His  voice  had  a  faint  edge  of  contempt. 
He  put  his  hand  on  Viola's  to  lead  her  towards  the 
house. 

"Must  we  go  in,  Ian?  You've  not  even  looked 
at  our  view!  I  think  there's  a  dear  small  moon 
hiding  behind  those  cypress  trees.  Don't  they  call 
them  the  fingers  of  the  Madonna?" 

Mclvor's  hand  became  insistent.  "Let's  go  in, 
dear — I've  a  great  deal  to  talk  of  to  you.  We 
must  make  plans."  He  drew  her  to  him  as  they 
entered  the  house. 

"I  have — a  wife — a  companion  now,"  he  whis 
pered  against  her  hair. 

Viola,  looking  up,  saw  that  his  eyes  were  full  of 
tears.  A  curious  thought  flashed  through  her 
mind — it  was  like  the  swift  flight  of  a  bird,  seen 
for  a  moment  against  an  infinity  of  sky.  Viola  did 
not  speak  her  thought,  but  it  was  this: 

"And  I,  have  I — a  lover?"  But  the  thought 
passed  as  a  bird  does,  and  they  went  together  into 
the  house. 

[661 


CHAPTER  VIII 

There  was  a  wooden  pavilion,  painted  green  and 
red,  that  could  be  reached  by  opening  the  French 
windows  of  Viola's  sitting  room,  descending  some 
outer  stairs,  and  taking  a  few  steps  along  a  yellow 
sanded  path,  bordered  with  wallflowers.  Break 
fast,  or  rather  coffee  with  rolls  and  honey,  had  been 
taken  there  by  Leone,  at  nine  o'clock,  and  placed 
on  a  round  rattan  table,  covered  with  a  white 
cloth.  Leone  arranged  everything  carefully,  touch 
ing  the  heavy  white  china  with  its  simple  design 
in  green  delicately  and  as  though  it  were  precious. 
After  immense  pains  with  the  serviettes,  she  con 
verted  them  successfully  into  two  open  and 
symmetrical  fans.  Regarding  these  with  satis 
faction,  she  stepped  into  the  garden,  selected  two 
exquisite  and  almost  perfect  white  rosebuds,  and 
laid  them,  with  a  sentimental  glance,  beside  each 
place. 

Mclvor  interrupted  these  ministrations.  He 
gave  Leone  a  kind  "good  morning,"  in  his  rather 
deep  but  very  pleasant  voice,  and  asked  if  she 
could  find  him  a  morning  paper.  Leone  departed, 
amazed  but  submissive,  and  soon  returned  with  a 
copy  of  Le  Temps ^  two  days  old.  Mclvor  accepted 
it  gratefully,  however,  and  immediately  began  to 
read  it.  After  reading  two  leaders,  whose  contents 

[67] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


he  already  knew,  Mclvor  became  conscious  of  the 
flight  of  time  and  an  aching  void  within  himself. 
A  continental  breakfast  seemed  a  poor  thing  at 
best  and  not  to  be  borne  at  its  worst.  Mclvor 
touched  the  little  coffee  pots  with  his  hand  and 
found  them  quite  cold.  The  butter  had  taken  on  a 
dissipated  and  jaded  appearance.  Mclvor  drew 
his  brows  together,  stepped  into  the  garden  path 
and  called. 

"Viola!  Viola!"  Receiving  no  answer,  he  took 
out  his  watch,  and  by  a  glance  at  it  felt  himself 
justified  in  irritation.  He  and  the  breakfast  had 
been  waiting  half  an  hour. 

Putting  Le  Temps  down  in  the  pavilion,  Mclvor 
started  off  for  the  house.  At  the  door  of  Viola's 
sitting  room  he  encountered  Leone,  whose  white 
face  at  sight  of  him  became  alive  with  curiosity. 
Mclvor  resented  the  curiosity. 

"Where  is  Madame?"  he  asked  curtly. 

"Why,  but  M'sieur,  not  here!  surely  in  the 
garden — surely  with  you!" 

Mclvor  restrained  his  temper.  He  was  amazed 
to  find  that  it  needed  restraint  over  such  a  trifle. 

"I'll  look  in  the  garden." 

Leone  flew  before  him.  "Perhaps,  this  path, 
M'sieur,  it  leads  to  those  trees — it  is  mysterious! 
Madame  would  like — " 

"Never  mind,  Leone — I'll  go.    Thank  you." 

The  path  indicated  as  mysterious  wound  away 
from  the  house,  towards  the  crest  of  the  hill.  It 

[68] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


was  carefully  sanded,  as  were  the  other  paths, 
with  bright  golden  grains,  evidently  selected  for 
their  beauty.  In  his  haste  Mclvor  scattered  them. 
After  a  ten  minutes'  walk  between  beds  of  pink  and 
blue  hydrangea,  red  roses,  white  and  red  camellias, 
the  cultivation  of  the  garden  gave  place  to  a 
sylvan  and  delicate  wildness.  Grass  sprang  up  in 
the  path,  cypress  trees,  trimmed,  massed  their 
dark  and  shadowed  foliage  against  the  soft  green 
of  wild  olives.  Here  and  there  great  rocks, 
covered  with  moss  and  lichen,  shouldered  their 
gray  outline  against  the  sky.  As  he  gained  the 
summit  of  the  hill,  a  glade  opened  before  Mclvor. 
Through  the  low  growing  branches  of  oak  trees, 
linked  together  by  chains  of  ivy,  the  sun  diffused 
a  golden  light.  In  the  center  of  the  circle  was  an 
immense  rock.  Ferns  and  wild  grasses  had  found 
a  foothold  in  its  crevises,  and  on  its  summit 
perched  a  small  boy.  He  was  dressed  in  rags  that 
fluttered  and  fell  away  from  his  thin  brown  arms, 
as  he  held  a  pipe  to  his  lips  and  played  upon  it.  A 
little,  haunting  air  crept  out — thin,  elusive,  an 
elfin  thing. 

The  boy's  eyes  were  shut,  and  his  thick  curly 
hair  uncovered. 

A  gray  squirrel,  his  little  head  turned  on  one  side 
as  though  he  were  listening  to  the  tune,  sat  so  that 
the  boy  could  have  touched  him.  Near  the  rock, 
but  quite  motionless,  stood  Viola.  She  was  dressed 
in  a  dark  brown  corduroy  skirt,  quite  short,  that 
showed  high  walking  boots,  a  loose  short  jacket,  a 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


white  blouse  open  at  the  throat,  and  a  white  felt 
hat  with  a  scarlet  quill  in  it. 

Mclvor,  at  sight  of  her,  was  conscious  of  an 
immense  relief,  and  also  of  the  fact  that  he  had 
been  very  badly  treated.  It  was  a  small  feeling, 
but  resentment  often  comes  to  one  who  has  been 
made  unnecessarily  anxious. 

"Viola!"  His  voice  had  more  than  an  edge  of 
impatience.  It  had  also  quite  the  effect  of  leger 
demain  on  Viola,  the  flute  player  and  the  squirrel. 
The  two  last  vanished  like  a  puff  of  smoke,  and 
his  wife  gazed  at  him  in  amazement.  But  almost 
at  once  her  face  broke  into  smiles,  and  she  ran  up 
to  him. 

"Did  you  ever  see  anything  so  adorable  as  that 
little  boy?  Don't  you  think  he's  a  faun?  I  came 
up  early  and  when  I  first  saw  him  in  this  delicious 
place  it  was  like  finding  one  of  Corot's  inspi 
rations.  Don't  you  envy  artists,  Ian?  I  mean,  of 
course,  real  artists  that  spend  their  lives  finding 
beauty  for  the  world?" 

"Naturally,  Viola,  civilization  owes  a  debt  to 
artists.  But  to  my  mind  it  is  not  a  pressing  one, 
and  art  is  often  used  as  a  mantle  for  things  that 
are  far  from  the  only  beauty  that  is  of  real 
importance— 

"The  only  beauty,  Ian?" 

"You  interrupted  me.  I  meant,  of  course,  what 
is  obvious  to  you.  The  only  beauty  that  can  be  of 
great  importance  to  any  one — is  that  which  con 
cerns  their — "  Mclvor  hesitated  and  then  did 

[70] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


characteristically  what  he  disliked  doing;  he 
brought  out  the  word,  "souls." 

"I  see,"  murmured  Viola.  "You  mean,  of 
course,  something  splendid." 

She  was  conscious  of  a  strange  embarrassment 
as  Mclvor  discoursed,  reluctantly  but  firmly, 
about  that  deeply  personal  thing,  a  soul.  Viola 
felt  as  though  she  had  been  guilty  of  an  imperti 
nence;  almost  at  the  same  time  she  remembered 
the  breakfast  waiting  in  the  green  and  red  pavilion, 
and  though  quite  aware  that  it  was  not  en  rapport 
as  a  topic  of  conversation  with  their  present 
unexpectedly  exalted  one,  she  broached  the 
subject. 

Mclvor  responded  with  alacrity  and  they  were 
soon  seated  opposite  each  other.  Fresh  coffee  was 
brought,  and  presently  a  packet  of  mail.  With  a 
hasty  excuse  Mclvor  became  immersed  in  his. 
Viola  received  two  rather  characteristic  messages 
— one  a  long  but  almost  incoherent  letter  from 
Lady  Mordaunt,  full  of  kindly  but  rather  senti 
mental  platitudes,  selected  evidently  as  appro 
priate  to  the  occasion.  Towards  the  last  of  her 
letter,  however,  she  forgot  the  occasion  and 
became  natural. 

"It  is  very  dull,  dear.  There  is  no  one  at 
Harley,  and  we  have  hardly  had  any  week-end 
parties  since  you  left.  The  young  people  seem 
very  much  engaged.  Harold  Gaunt,  as  you  prob 
ably  know  (this  last  was  heavily  underscored),  has 
gone  back  to  Kairpur.  I  have  given  Wimbish,  the 

[71] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


foreign  missionary  we  are  sending  to  India — a 
dear  good  man  he  is,  too — Harold's  address.  The 
dear  boy  may  have  some  comfort  (also  under 
scored)  from  him." 

Lady  Mordaunt  then  subscribed  herself,  rather 
abruptly,  as  "Your  affectionate  Aunt." 

Viola  read  the  letter  more  than  once,  then  let  it 
fall  from  her  hand.  She  looked  out  through  an- 
airy  aperture  of  the  pavilion  that  was  framed  in 
white  jasmine  to  the  blue  freedom  of  the  sky. 

Mclvor,  finishing  one  letter,  glanced  up.  He 
was  eager  to  tell  his  news.  Eager  to  make  plans 
for  leaving  Nice.  He  imagined  in  Viola  the  exist 
ence  of  all  the  traits  that  he  fancied  he  admired  and 
desired  in  woman.  He  credited  her  with  a 
superiority  over  foolish  sentimentality  that  needed 
repetitions  of  a  once  proclaimed  devotion.  He 
knew  her  to  be  sympathetic,  gentle,  womanly,  in 
the  tenderest  way  to  himself.  He  imagined  her 
capable  of  exerting  those  qualities  in  the  larger 
interests  of  humanity.  He  believed  her  extra 
ordinary  physical  beauty  held  a  rare  flame  of  the 
spirit  that  burns  for  others. 

Mclvor  was  not,  at  this  time,  selfish.  He 
made  the  frequent  mistake  of  the  humanitarian, 
who  ignores  the  one  he  could  help  for  the  many 
that  he  cannot  reach.  Viola  needed  to  know  that 
her  husband  loved  her,  not  that  he  wanted  her 
support  and  interest  in  his  affairs. 

So  again,  Mclvor  spoke  of  Glas  Ogven.  By 
leaving  the  Villa  at  nine  the  next  morning,  they 

[72] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


could  be  in  Paris  in  the  evening  of  the  same  day, 
spend  the  night,  cross  from  Calais  in  the  morning, 
reach  the  Castle  by  night. 

"Could  you  do  it  dear,  packing  and  all  ?  We  are 
really  needed  badly!" 

Viola  did  not  answer  at  once.  Her  gaze  was  still 
on  the  blue.  Mclvor  noticed  that  one  letter  lay 
unopened  at  her  place.  He  touched  it  with  his 
slim,  strong  hand.  Viola  took  the  letter  from  him 
with  a  start  and  Lady  Adela's  effusion  fell  to  the 
ground. 

'This  is  from  Tante  Hortense,  Ian.  Do  you 
want  to  know  what  she  says?" 

"Of  course!  but  you  haven't  answered  me." 

"About  leaving  here?  Why,  yes — just  what  you 
say.  It  will  be  simple  enough  to  be  ready." 

Mclvor  rewarded  her  with  one  of  his  rare 
smiles. 

"Thank  you  for  that!  And  now  the  news — 
won't  you  read  me  your  letter?" 

He  settled  back  in  his  chair  and  watched  his 
wife.  Her  little  white  teeth  were  pressed  on  her 
lower  lip,  and  as  she  looked  down  at  the  letter  in 
her  hand  her  dark  lashes  made  a  shadow  on  her 
small  face.  She  looked  extremely  young,  and  at 
the  moment  rather  sad.  Mclvor  noticed  it,  but 
thought  it  the  effect  of  her  coloring  and  her 
spirituelle  type  of  face.  He  wished,  however, 
rather  vaguely  that  she  would  look  up. 

Viola  did  not.  She  read  Tante  Hortense's 
letter,  at  least  the  first  part,  aloud: 

[73] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 

"My  dear  child: 

It  is  a  selfish  thing  for  me  to  intrude  my  voice 
into  your  paradise,  but  perhaps  the  thought  of  me 
and  other  Parisians  shrouded  in  rain  and  fighting 
influenza  will  make  your  lot  that  much  brighter  in 
comparison.  I  am  willing  to  let  you  picture  me  in 
the  last  ignominy  of  immense  handkerchiefs  and  a 
lonely  hearth.  If  I  in  my  turn  could  have  a  line 
that  would  say  how  it  is  with  you — " 

Viola  stopped  reading  aloud  here,  but  the  note 
was  not  finished.  A  tardy,  and  half  maternal 
qualm,  as  well  as  a  real  curiosity,  had  evidently 
made  Tante  Hortense  their  prey. 

"You  are  a  dear  child,  little  Viola — you  deserve 
happiness.  You  know  now  whether  you  have 
found  it.  I  will  know  when  I  see  you.  Stay  as 
long  as  you  can  in  the  villa,  dear — have  a  good 
holiday.  Perhaps  in  another  month  I  might  run 
down  to  Mentone — 

"Will  you  mind  seeing  me  very  much?  If  so,  I 
shan't  be  offended,  but  will  stay  in  my  corner,  and 
understand." 

"Ian,  how  long  have  we  been  married?" 

Mclvor  started.  "My  dear,  what  a  question! 
All  of  four  days — you  didn't  know!" 

Viola  stood  up,  but  she  did  not  raise  her  eyes. 
"I'm  going  in  now — to  see  about  my  packing." 
She  spoke  rather  gravely,  and  turned  at  the  door  of 
the  pavilion. 

"I  did  know  about  our  marriage,  of  course,  Ian. 
I  wasn't  quite  sure,  but  now  I  am— 

[74] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


Mclvor  watched  her  slim  figure  as  it  moved 
away  slowly. 

"Sure  of  what?"  he  wondered,  then  gave  a  short 
laugh,  that  held  a  note  of  tender  indulgence. 

"Four  days  or  four  years — there  is  no  essential 
difference,  after  all.  There  will  be,  please  God, 
ties  and  responsibilities  added  to  us — but  already 
— Viola  and  I  are  a  family!" 

A  sensation  of  profound  satisfaction  pervaded 
Mclvor,  as  he  voiced  his  thought  aloud.  He  was  in 
a  splendid  physical  condition,  and  now  that  he  was 
to  return  to  Castle  Conway,  felt  himself  able  to 
meet  and  master  the  difficulties  there.  Being  a 
family  man  would,  perhaps,  give  his  opinion  more 
weight  with  the  villagers  he  longed  to  influence. 
Pacing  up  and  down  the  terrace  on  which  the  little 
marble  fountain  played,  Mclvor  thought  of  Viola 
as  mistress  of  his  home,  with  warm  pride.  She  would 
make  an  adorable  chatelaine,  and  a  kind  and 
friendly  patron  to  his  poor.  He  could  almost  see 
her  stopping  in  one  of  the  lanes  of  Glas  Ogven,  by 
a  honeysuckle  hedge,  to  speak  to  a  child — perhaps 
pick  the  little  thing  up,  and  at  an  anxious  invita 
tion  from  its  proud  mother,  see  her  enter  the  lich 
gate,  cross  the  bare  threshold,  and  sit  in  the  ingle 
nook  for  a  cup  of  tea  from  the  copper  kettle.  Or 
presiding  at  their  own  table,  in  the  immense  oak- 
panelled  dining  hall  of  the  Castle  they  would  often 
be  alone,  as  Mclvor  thought  with  satisfaction. 
Once  a  week  the  Robinsons  would  come,  and 
once  a  fortnight  the  Macreadys  from  Dhin  Dhu. 

[75] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 

And  after  a  while  possibly,  perhaps,  surely,  Viola 
would  understand  his  efforts  at  a  democratic 
relation  with  the  tenants,  and  beginning  with  the 
mothers  and  children  have  them  up  for  a  jam  tea. 

As  he  imagined  small  feet  marching  with  strict 
decorum  through  his  big  rooms,  a  new  thought 
came  to  Mclvor.  It  was  of  a  room  in  a  turret, 
whose  windows  watched  the  ocean  from  all  sides, 
and  around  which  the  sea  winds  sang.  The  walls 
of  the  room  were  hung  with  faded  tapestries  from 
the  Mabinognion.  Geraint,  in  the  forest  with  the 
white  stag,  and  the  face  of  Enid  looking  on  her 
lord  "with  meek  blue  eyes — the  truest  eyes  that 
ever  answered  heaven." 

On  the  stone  floor  was  a  very  beautiful  rug  that 
had  been  placed  there  when  the  room  was  closed. 
Near  the  door  that  opened  into  what  had  been 
Mclvor's  mother's  sleeping  room,  was  a  wooden 
cradle,  of  carved  oak.  On  the  wall  that  faced  the 
east  hung  a  silver  crucifix  of  exquisite  workman 
ship,  and  underneath  it  was  a  worn  Prie  Dieu — 
that  was  all  that  the  room  had  held  for  nearly 
forty  years — but  Mclvor's  thought  filled  it  with  a 
delicious  vision. 

He  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  moving  one 
foot  back  and  forth  in  the  path,  scattered  the 
golden  grains  of  sand. 

"Jolly  little  beggars — children!"  he  said  aloud. 


[76] 


CHAPTER  IX 

In  the  morning  and  from  the  window  of  their 
carriage,  Viola  said  good  bye  to  Nice.  She  gave  a 
small  boy,  who  was  trying  to  create  a  market  for 
some  atrocities,  in  the  shape  of  baskets  covered 
with  woolen  oranges,  and  with  the  name  "Nice" 
written  on  them,  the  immense  sum  of  five  francs. 
His  astonishment  that  broke  into  smiles  of  joy  and 
a  pretty  gesture  of  gratitude,  made  Viola  glad  for 
the  opportunity  of  her  kindness. 

Mclvor  watched  her  with  amusement.  "You 
will  spoil  him,  utterly — he  will  expect  the  same 
from  other  travelers  and  be  disappointed." 

But  Viola  put  her  hand  out  of  the  window  and 
waved  to  him.  "I  have  an  odd  feeling  that  I  will 
come  back  here  some  day,  Ian,  and  it  will  be  good 
to  see  a  friendly  face." 

"You  like  the  place?" 

"I  love  the  south — I  feel  a  sense  of — let  me 
borrow  a  southern  phrase  here  and  call  it  'dolcefar 
niente?  Sometime,  Ian,  may  we  go  to  Italy?" 

Mclvor  looked  down  from  some  rugs  he  was 
arranging.  He  was  dressed  in  a  black  and  white 
tweed  suit  that  fitted  his  tall  and  slightly  angular 
figure  closely,  and  as  though  he  were  accustomed 
to  it.  There  was  nothing  in  his  attitude  or  appear 
ance  to  suggest  that  prodigy  of  interest — a  return- 


77 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


ing  bridegroom.  Though  Mclvor  succeeded  com 
pletely  in  looking  and  behaving  like  a  man  who  has 
been  married  for  a  period  of  years,  he  did  not  look 
as  though  he  were  married  to  Viola. 

There  was  something  youthful,  untouched,  in 
her  rather  wistful  glance,  as  she  looked  up  at  her 
husband.  He  did  not  answer  her  question,  but 
made  her  and  himself  comfortable  with  magazines 
and  papers. 

The  road-bed  was  rough  and  the  carriage  rocked 
with  a  sickening  motion,  as  they  emerged  from  one 
tunnel,  to  plunge  into  another.  Viola  did  not 
read,  and  soon  gave  up  her  attempt  to  watch  the 
country,  and  in  so  doing  became  the  prey  of  hateful 
and  insistent  thoughts. 

She  was  returning  not  only  from  a  journey  into  a 
land  of  languorous  sunshine,  dream-like  seas  and 
skies,  but  from  a  great  adventure  of  the  soul.  The 
end  of  that  pilgrimage  had  not  been  reached  in  the 
Mecca  of  spiritual  attainment,  or  even  found  in 
the  exotic  garden  of  the  senses.  Viola  knew  her 
self  to  be  like  one  wandering  alone  in  a  wilderness. 

The  trip  to  Paris  was  interrupted  at  the  frontier 
by  two  almost  passionately  important  guards,  who 
relapsed  into  human  beings  on  receiving  Mclvor's 
just  if  not  generous  pourboire,  with  his  assurance 
that  neither  Viola,  Leone  nor  himself  were  conceal 
ing  jars  of  jam  or  boxes  of  cigars  about  their 
persons,  and  were  about  to  depart  when  a  douanier 
looking  fiercely  interrogative,  insisted  on  a  thor 
ough  search  being  made  in  their  compartment. 

[78] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


Viola  and  Mclvor  were  obliged  to  submit,  and 
were  turned  out  with  Leone  on  a  platform.  After 
much  rummaging  there  was  a  shout  of  exultation, 
and  the  douanier  held  up  a  small  box  triumphantly. 
He  theru  invited  the  passengers  to  return  to  their 
places. 

"Viola!  M'sieur!"  he  exclaimed,  thrusting  the 
box,  with  its  outer  cover  removed,  but  a  layer  of 
green  leaves  over  its  contents,  almost  into  Mclvor's 
face.  "What  a  loss!  The  good  Father  Descoings 
left  this  treasure,  but  telegraphed  us  to  search,  as 
he  will  follow  later."  Raising  the  leaves  carefully, 
he  displayed  several  rows  of  neatly  packed  snails. 

"Enfin!    Escargo!"  he  called  triumphantly. 

Arrived  once  more  in  Paris,  they  went  at  once  by 
motor  to  the  Ritz,  and  were  given  a  suite  facing  the 
Place  Vendome.  It  was  nearly  ten  and  Mclvor 
advised  dining  in  their  rooms.  Viola  longed  to  go 
down  into  the  brilliantly  lit  salle  a  manger;  she 
wanted  to  feel  life  about  her,  to  be  distracted  by 
strange  faces,  but  she  was  determined  not  to  have 
time  for  Tante  Hortense — that  lady  had  admitted 
herself  to  be  possessed  of  too  observing  an  eye. 

Leone,  miraculously  revived  by  her  arrival  in 
Paris,  looked  disappointed  at  Mclvor's  decision, 
but  as  Viola  agreed  to  it,  began  laying  out  things 
from  the  dressing  bags. 

Viola  bathed  and  slipped  into  a  white  negligee, 
and  after  a  somewhat  silent,  but  very  delicious 
dinner  with  Mclvor,  she  drew  back  the  heavy 
velvet  curtains,  the  lace  ones,  unfastened  the  volet 

[79] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


de  fenetre,  and  looked  out  into  the  Parisian  night. 
It  was  very  clear,  but  evidently  sharp,  as  pedes 
trians,  and  even  people  leaving  or  entering  motors, 
were  well  wrapped  up.  The  trees  on  either  side  of 
the  avenue  held  up  attenuated  and  naked  branches 
to  the  brilliantly-starred  sky,  as  if  in  fruitless  but 
inevitable  supplication.  As  Viola  watched  the 
street  she  felt  herself  mentally  removed  from  the 
room  she  was  sharing  with  her  husband,  and  she 
wished  to  prolong  that  sensation. 

Mclvor,  tired  after  the  day's  travel,  threw  him 
self  on  s  couch.  From  its  cushions  he  watched  the 
outline  of  Viola's  white  gown,  the  shadow  of  her 
dark  hair  against  the  rose  colored  curtains.  She 
was  so  still  that  after  a  few  moments  Mclvor 
roused  himself  and  spoke  to  her. 

"We  make  another  early  start  to-morrow,  you 
know.  Hadn't  you  better  think  of  bed?" 

Viola  turned  from  the  window  reluctantly.  "I 
was  thinking  of  my — of  my  mother.  She  was  a 
French  woman — a  Parisian.  I  told  you  about  her 
— before  we  were  married." 

Mclvor  stirred  slightly,  and  shaded  his  eyes 
with  his  hand. 

"Whenever  I  am  in  Paris — I  imagine  my  mother 
— living  here.  Driving  in  the  Bois — taking  part  in 
the  gaiety — admired  for  her  beauty — having  her 
following — "  she  broke  off,  with  a  little  half 
laugh. 

"I  even  go  to  early  service  with  her,  at  the 
Madeleine — Paris  seems  to  hold  her  for  me." 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


There  was  a  short  and  rather  constrained  silence. 
Moving  from  the  window  into  the  lighted  room. 
Viola  wished  she  had  not  spoken  so  intimately. 

Mclvor  did  not  break  the  silence,  and  after  a 
few  moments,  Viola  spoke  his  name.  He  did  not 
answer,  and  she  went  up  to  him.  His  tall  and 
strong  figure  was  completely  relaxed — his  head 
turned  on  one  side  showed  an  uncompromising 
profile  against  the  cushion.  His  breath  came 
regularly  from  slightly  parted  lips.  As  Viola 
watched  him  an  almost  ironic  expression  crossed 
her  face.  She  bent  over  him  but  not  near  enough 
to  wake  him. 

"You've  gone  to  sleep,  but  you  won't  have 
dreams,"  she  thought.  "I  was  telling  you  mine — 
but  you  didn't  listen.  You  won't  ever  understand 
them." 

For  a  moment  her  eyelids  stung  with  tears,  then 
she  moved  quietly  to  the  bedroom,  took  a  com 
forter  from  her  bed  and  covered  Mclvor  carefully. 
One  of  his  hands  slipped  down  from  under  the 
cover.  As  she  touched  it  his  eyes  opened. 

"Viola!  what  in  the  world!" 

"Nothing,  Ian.     You  dropped  off — and  I— 

"You  were  tucking  me  up — like  a  baby!  How 
absurd  of  me — it's  not  eleven  yet." 

He  got  to  his  feet  with  difficulty,  struggling  in 
the  folds  of  the  quilt.  Viola  did  not  help  him. 

"I'm  tired,  too,"  she  said,  going  toward  the 
door.  At  the  threshold  she  turned.  "Good  night, 
Ian — you  will  have  me  called  in  time,  won't  you?" 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 

"Why,  yes,  dear,  but  are  you  really  going  now? 
I  feel  quite  refreshed."  He  gave  a  short  laugh. 
The  thought  that  he  had  asked  a  good  deal  of  his 
wife,  in  giving  up  the  villa  to  take  this  hurried  and 
tiresome  journey,  had  just  occurred  to  Mclvor. 
He  had  felt  that  she  understood  the  need  of  it, 
almost  as  much  as  he  himself— but  now  a  faint 
doubt  crossed  his  mind.  Was  she  really  tired,  or 
had  he  offended — hurt  her? 

"Then  you  may  sit  up,"  she  responded,  gaily 
enough. 

Mclvor  came  up  to  her,  bent  down  and  kissed 
her. 

"Good  night,  Ian."  Gently  freeing  herself, 
Viola  entered  her  room  and  closed  the  door. 


82] 


CHAPTER  X 

The  next  day,  after  fifty  minutes  of  acute  misery 
for  Viola  on  the  Channel,  the  Mclvors  arrived  at 
the  Savoy.  A  brief  rest  there,  and  they  were  again 
on  their  way,  speeding  through  Gloucestershire. 
Viola  watched  the  parklike  landscape,  dotted  with 
oak  trees  and  marked  with  well-tended  hedges  and 
cultivated  fields,  give  place  to  the  green  and 
rolling  country  watered  by  the  Thames  and  Severn, 
and  the  blue  line  of  the  Cotswold  Hills. 

Leone  was  amazed  and  indignant  at  what  seemed 
to  her  a  deliberate  choice  of  discomfort,  and  when 
a  hurried  change  was  made  at  Liverpool  to  a 
steamer  of  the  North  Wales  Company,  she  bore 
herself  as  one  upon  whom  the  last  indignity  has 
been  heaped. 

Mclvor  looked  at  her  white,  disgusted  face  with 
amusement,  knowing  what  was  in  store  for  her. 
He  hoped  that  Viola  would  send  the  French 
woman  home  of  her  own  accord,  when  she  reached 
Castle  Conway,  and  take  a  village  girl.  Something 
in  Mclvor  resented  the  sophistication  of  the  little 
Parisian  waiting  upon  the  innocence  of  his  wife. 

On  the  sloping  and  soon  violently-agitated  deck 
of  the  small  steamer,  Viola  felt  again  the  creeping 
wretchedness  and  enervation  that  is  by  no  means 
the  easiest  type  of  mal  de  mer  to  endure.  Mclvor, 

[83] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


who  was  a  splendid  sailor,  secured  her  a  deck 
chair  in  a  sheltered  corner,  tucked  her  up  care 
fully,  and  with  an  admonition  to  stay  as  she  was, 
delivered  in  an  unconsciously  hearty  voice,  he 
left  her. 

A  fine  rain,  almost  like  mist,  was  falling  from 
low-hanging  sulphur  colored  clouds.  The  water 
that  rose  in  long  swells  about  the  boat  was  a  sickly 
green,  and  looked  swollen,  as  a  monster  in  disease 
might  look.  A  heavy  smell  of  oil  mingled  with  the 
odor  of  frying  food.  There  were  few  passengers. 
Mclvor,  glad  of  the  opportunity  for  exercise, 
walked  at  a  good  pace  around  the  deck.  He  wore  a 
green  cap,  with  a  visor  pulled  well  down  over  his 
eyes,  and  as  he  walked  his  mind  was  alert,  quick 
with  plans  for  his  people.  His  rapid  steps,  as 
they  passed  Viola  at  regular  intervals,  made  a 
rhythmic  accompaniment  to  her  otherwise  form 
less  thoughts. 

As  Port  Penryln  came  in  view,  Mclvor  stopped 
by  his  wife's  chair,  and  roused  her  to  look  at  the 
Harbour. 

"See,  my  dear,  we're  nearly  in.  I  want  you  to 
notice — nearly  all  of  this  traffic  is  carried  on  for 
slate."  He  pointed  an  eager  and  instructive  finger 
towards  the  harbour  and  its  activities. 

Leone,  who  had  emerged  from  the  lower  and 
mysterious  regions  of  her  berth,  like  something 
dead  propelled  automatically,  was  arrested  by  his 
remark.  Her  small  and  bead-like  eyes,  from  which 
all  life  had  gone,  stared  stonily. 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


Viola,  making  a  tremendous  effort,  stood  up  and 
tried  to  be  interested. 

"Is  it  all  from  your  quarries,  Ian?" 

"No,  none  of  it — we  have  our  own  shipping 
point  from  Port  Madoc.  This  is  the  beginning  of 
our  real  journey.  You  will  be  in  Wales  when  we 
land,  but  you  will  not  be  in  Glas  Ogven  until 
to-morrow  night. 

Mclvor's  cheerful  and  resonant  tones  were  those 
of  one  who  was  making  a  pleasant  announcement, 
and  it  was  pleasant  to  him,  to  show  Viola  the 
familiar  sights  of  his  native  place. 

"Mon  Dieu!"  came  from  the  parted  lips  of 
Leone,  in  a  tone  of  despair. 

Viola  turned  to  the  poor  thing.  "Never  mind, 
Leone,  we  will  soon  have  a  good  rest — there's  an 
hotel  here,  isn't  there,  Ian?" 

"Yes,  very  fair,  we'll  go  right  to  it." 

An  open  motor,  driven  by  a  thick-set,  dark  man, 
dressed  in  a  faded  mackintosh,  carried  them  from 
the  dock  into  a  narrow  cobbled  street.  A  keen  wind 
was  blowing,  and  as  Viola  looked  up  the  steep  slope 
of  the  hill  they  were  mounting,  she  saw  an  immense 
medieval  fortress  black  against  the  murky  sky. 
On  either  side  of  the  street  narrow  stone  houses 
evidently  sheltered  some  life,  as  a  dull  glow  from 
lamp  or  fire  shone  out  occasionally  from  behind 
closed  blinds.  A  cold  and  clinging  mist  had 
taken  the  place  of  the  light  rain,  and  seemed  to 
issue  like  the  breath  of  the  town  from  the  stone 
buildings  and  rise  like  an  exhalation  from  the  street. 

[85] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


The  driver  of  the  motor,  beside  whom  Leone 
was  sitting,  proceeded  without  words  or  inquiry 
up  the  hill  to  the  frowning  walls  of  the  castle,  then 
turned  abruptly  down  a  side  street  and  stopped 
before  the  faintly  illuminated  sign  of  the  Royal 
Goat  Hotel. 

Chilled  and  almost  numb  with  fatigue,  Viola 
stumbled,  and  would  have  fallen  as  she  left  the  car 
had  not  Mclvor  steadied  her  with  a  firm  hand. 
Leone,  who  had  sat  sphinx-like  until  the  driver 
had  offered  her  an  immense  hand  clad  in  a  huge 
woolen  mitten,  shrank  from  him,  uttered  a  shrill 
"Non,  non,"  and  bounded  with  amazing  vitality  to 
the  pavement.  Safely  there,  she  crept  to  Viola,  as 
one  who  seeks  sanctuary. 

The  dining  room  of  the  "Royal  Goat,"  though 
bearing  witness  by  its  long  table,  with  the  cloth 
spread  and  a  double  row  of  napkins  in  rings  to  a 
sufficient  clientele,  was  quite  empty  of  guests  when 
the  Mclvors  were  ushered  in  by  a  butler  of 
immense  dignity  and  splendid  calves. 

The  room  was  long  and  narrow,  with  melan 
choly  mustard  colored  paper  on  the  walls,  and  a 
single  suspended  oil  lamp  that  seemed  to  sway  as 
it  cast  its  sickly  light  on  the  not  quite  clean  cloth, 
with  its  meek  and  uninviting  preparations  for  the 
morrow.  The  floor  was  stone,  covered  with  strips 
of  a  mild  green  carpet.  On  the  walls  hung  four 
engravings  in  gilt  frames:  "The  Stag  at  Bay," 
"The  Last  Hope,"  "Windsor  Castle"  and  "The 
Lakes  of  Killarney."  A  white,  air-tight  enamel 

[86] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 

stove  concealed  within  itself  some  small  sticks 
that  were  not  dry.  The  evidence  of  this  was  a 
diffused  odor  of  wood  smoke. 

Mclvor  seated  Viola  and  raised  his  brows  at  her 
quizzically  from  across  the  table. 

"You  will  try  to  take  something,  won't  you? 
Hot  soup — something?" 

To  Viola  the  whole  room  seemed  to  be  swaying 
with  the  dreadful  roll  of  the  sea.  The  thought  of 
food  in  this  melancholy  place  was  unbearable.  A 
slice  of  cold  mutton,  a  preserved  pear  checked  her 
denial.  Looking  over  them  to  her  husband,  she 
found  him  attacking  his  repast  with  enthusiasm. 
Mclvor  met  her  eye  with  authority. 

"Take  it,  my  dear,  this  is  traveler's  fare,"  he 
smiled  at  her  quite  kindly,  and  very  carefully 
began  "making"  talk  about  the  neighborhood  in 
which  they  were.  Of  the  college,  with  its  three 
hundred  students,  and  its  departments  of  agri 
culture,  mining  and  sciences,  from  whose  gorse- 
covered  hill  a  glimpse  of  Snowden  could  be  had — 
of  the  first  Christian  Church  founded  when 
Anarand  was  King  of  North  Wales,  and  from  whose 
rood-loft  a  figure  of  the  Virgin  bearing  a  holy 
cross  had  fallen  upon  and  killed  the  insistently 
supplicating  wife  of  Stylyt,  Governor  of  the 
castle.  Of  the  revenge  taken  on  the  holy  figure  by 
the  outraged  villagers,  by  throwing  it  into  the  sea — 
of  its  final  arrival  on  the  beach,  at  a  distant  and 
jealous  town — of  its  burial  there,  with  an  inscrip 
tion  over  it. 

[87] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


"If  I  remember   correctly,  it   goes  like  this." 
Mclvor  closed  his  eyes  and  made  an  effort  of  the 
mind.    Very  soon  the  odd  words  came  to  him: 
The  Jews  their  God  did  crucify, 
These  others  their's  did  drown. 
Because  their  wants  she'd  not  supply, 
and  now  lies  under  this  cold  stone.'  ' 

Viola,  pushing  her  plate  from  her,  gave  a  short 
laugh  that  did  not  sound  as  though  she  were 
amused. 

"Poor  woman,  what  an  answer  to  prayer!  She 
might  well  have  thought,  'Je  ne  sais  pas  a  que 
cest  que  la  vie  eternelle,  mais  c  elle  est  une  mauvaise 
•plaisanterier  ' 

Mclvor  looked  up  a  little  surprised  and  dis 
pleased  at  Viola's  quotation  and  tone.  Rather 
awkwardly,  as  he  drew  her  chair  back,  he  said: 

"You  know,  dear,  our  people  are  very  religious — 
it  goes  deep  with  them— 

Viola  interrupted — it  seemed  to  Mclvor  as 
though  she  had  not  heard  him. 

"Let's  go — I'm  so  tired." 

At  the  door  of  Viola's  bedroom — large,  high 
ceilinged,  hung  with  funereal  draperies — Mclvor 
paused  a  moment  before  following  his  wife.  He 
wished  that  she  would  speak  to  him,  assure  him 
that  she  wanted  him  with  her.  As  Viola  did  not, 
however,  but  slipped  at  once  into  a  small  chair 
drawn  up  by  an  open  fire,  Ian  assumed  the 
elaborate  indifference  that  the  really  shy  wrap 
themselves  in,  and  began  examining  some  small 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


books  that  Leone  had  put  out  on  a  little  table  by 
the  bed.  Two  of  them  were  a  girl's  books,  two 
were  not:  Tennyson's  "Idylls  of  the  King,"  Sir 
Walter  Scott's  "Lady  of  the  Lake,"  "Thomas  a' 
Kempis,"  and  a  charmingly  bound  and  illustrated 
copy  of  the"Rubaiyat."  Selecting  the  "Imitation," 
Mclvor  turned  to  a  favorite  passage  of  his  own. 

"This  is  fine,  Viola,  isn't  it?" 

"  'The  Love  of  Jesus  is  noble,  and  spurs  us  on  to 
do  great  things,  and  excites  us  to  desire  always 
things  more  perfect.  .  .It  makes  us  desire  to  be  at 
liberty  and  estranged  from  all  worldly  affection, 
lest  its  inner  view  be  hindered,  lest  it  suffer  itself  to 
be  entangled  through  some  temporal  interest,  or 
give  way  through  mishap — '  ' 

As  he  read  the  indifference  left  Mclvor's  voice, 
and  a  note  of  strong  sincerity  rang  in  it.  For  the 
first  time  Viola  felt  that  she  had  listened  to  the 
inner  voice,  the  real  voice  of  her  husband. 

"How  true  that  is! — how  easy — how  pitifully 
easy  to  be  distracted  from  our  work — to  give  not 
our  best  effort,  but  the  little  that  is  no  effort  at  all, 
and  that  we  only  give  after  our  own  selfishness  has 
been  satisfied." 

"Do  you  mean,  Ian,  that  we  don't  give  to 
charity?" 

"Charity,  no,  Viola,  how  I  hate  that  word!  I 
mean  that  we  don't  feel  the  interest  in  others  that 
we  do  in  ourselves." 

"But  if  we  did!  Surely,  we  might  risk  being 
thought  intrusive." 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 

"That's  it !  Of  course,  you  are  thought  intrusive, 
meddlesome,  crazy,  by  the  very  people  you  are 
trying  to  help.  I  don't  mean,  Viola,  the  interest 
in  others  that  might  be  felt  by  a  male  gossip— 
I  mean  the  interest  for  others  that  every  man  of 
responsibility  should  recognize.  I  mean  that, 
speaking  personally,  it  would  be  far  more  comfort 
able  for  me  as  well  as  our  people  at  Glas  Ogven,  to 
let  them  go  on  as  they  are,  with  added  wages  that 
they  don't  earn,  than  it  is  going  to  be,  to  shut  the 
quarries  down  and  try  to  have  them  make  a  go  of 
farming." 

"Won't  they  suffer,  Ian,  if  you  do  that?" 

"For  a  time,  perhaps." 

"But  we  have  plenty  of  money!"  Viola  got  up 
quickly.  "I  have  more  than  I  need!  Perhaps  the 
quarries  will  do  better  if  we  see  them  through 
another  year!" 

"My  dear  child!"  With  a  distinct  effort 
Mclvor  checked  his  impatience,  and  moved  away 
from  Viola.  "You're  tired  now.  You  can't  have 
understood  me  at  all!  I'll  say  good  night  and  we 
can  talk  of  this  when  we  are  at  home." 

Left  alone  in  her  bedroom,  Viola  sat  quite  still 
for  a  few  moments  and  closed  her  eyes,  in  the  hope 
that  the  floor,  walls  and  furniture  would  become 
stationary,  for  they  seemed  to  sway  with  the 
sickening  motion  of  the  sea.  Presently,  when  she 
looked  up  the  movement  had  ceased,  and  Viola 
was  conscious  of  a  slow  drip,  dripping  from  the 
eaves  of  the  house.  Her  room  was  a  corner  one, 

[90] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


overlooking  the  street,  nothing  was  heard  then 
but  the  sound  of  an  occasional  pedestrian  on  the 
pavement  below.  But  the  footsteps  were  not 
many. 

As  she  got  up  to  ring  for  Leone  she  noticed  the 
"Imitation"  opened  at  the  passage  Mclvor  had 
read  to  her.  Picking  the  book  up.  Viola  read 
further,  and  as  she  did  so  was  conscious  of  a 
tightening  in  her  throat,  of  a  desire  for  tears.  The 
beautiful  words  did  not  seem  to  her  the  expression 
of  a  remote  theology,  or  the  admonition  to  walk 
alone  through  the  earthly  life. 

"  'Love  feels  no  burthen,  regards  not  labors, 
would  willingly  do  more  than  it  is  able,  pleads  not 
impossibility,  because  it  feels  sure  it  can  and  may, 
do  all  things.  It  is  able,  therefore,  to  do  all  things, 
and  it  makes  good  many  deficiencies  and  frees 
many  things  for  being  carried  out — when  he  who 
loves  not  faints  and  falls  down/ ' 

Viola  felt,  as  she  read,  as  one  who  is  freezing 
might  feel  if  they  looked  across  a  distance  to 
where  a  great  flame  rose  to  heaven.  Without 
calling  Leone,  she  got  into  bed,  put  out  the  light 
and  tried  desperately  to  sleep.  The  bed  clothes 
seemed  damp,  and  gave  out  a  musty,  penetrating 
odor.  The  small  fire  had  not  burned  away,  but 
cast  grotesque  shadows  on  the  floor  and  over  the 
furniture. 

After  what  seemed  hours  of  lying  quietly,  there 
was  a  sound  of  footsteps  walking  rapidly  in  the 
corridor — a  door  opened  sharply,  and  a  vague 

[91] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 

hubbub  of  voices  escaped.  Raising  herself  in  bed 
Viola  lit  the  candle  and  strained  her  ears.  Presently 
the  footsteps  were  audible  again — they  walked 
rapidly  to  her  door,  and  Viola  heard  the  heavy 
timbre  of  Mclvor's  voice  interrupting  the  lighter 
and  hurried  speech  of  some  unknown  and  evidently 
agitated  man.  After  a  few  rapid  questions  and 
answers,  Mclvor  knocked  softly  on  Viola's  door, 
immediately  she  answered  him,  and  almost  at 
once  he  was  standing  at  the  foot  of  her  bed. 

He  looked  very  much  excited,  and  not  in  the 
least  as  he  had  looked  when  Viola  had  not  grasped 
his  sense  of  man's  cosmic  obligations.  He  seemed 
sure  that  she  would  understand  him  now. 

"My  dear  Viola,  I'm  very  sorry  to  disturb  you 
— but — there  is  urgent  need.  I'm  going  to  ask 
you  to  dress — just  slip  on  something  dark  and 
warm,  if  you  have  it,  and  I  will  wait  in  your 
sitting  room  to  explain." 

Without  a  word,  Viola  obeyed  him.  The  room 
was  very  cold,  and  as  she  moved  about  trying  to 
find  her  things  with  only  the  candle  and  fire  to 
light  her,  she  struck  sharply  several  times  against 
the  furniture — but  in  spite  of  the  difficulty  in 
dressing  without  Leone,  in  an  incredibly  short  time 
to  Mclvor,  Viola  was  ready.  She  was  dressed  in  a 
dark  blue  serge,  with  a  simple  white  collar,  and  she 
had  done  her  hair  low  at  the  back  of  her  head. 

Her  big  eyes  were  wide  with  astonishment,  but 
she  did  not  question  her  husband,  only  stood 
waiting  for  him  to  speak.  Just  before  he  did  so 

[92] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


there  was  a  curious  cry  from  the  end  of  the 
corridor.  After  it  died  away — and  it  was  not  loud 
— the  air  seemed  to  throb,  to  palpitate.  Mclvor 
grew  quite  pale.  He  took  Viola's  hand. 

"It's  this,  Viola.  A  chap  I  know,  he  has  been 
curate  at  Dhin  Dhu,  for  the  last  sixteen  years,  is 
taking  his  wife  home — she's  English — home  to 
Devon.  She  was  ill  when  they  started  but,  well, 
she  wouldn't  wait.  They've  literally  starved  on 
their  living,  I'm  afraid — and  they've  seven  child 
ren  to  see  to,  seven  and  another  coming — and, 
poor  souls — nothing  ready!  The  only  doctor  that 
lives  here  can't  be  located — Macready's  almost 
crazy.  They've  sent  out  for  a  nurse,  but  it's  late — 
she  doesn't  come — and  it's  terrible  to  think  of  that 
poor  woman  all  alone."  Mclvor  passed  his  hand 
across  his  forehead  and  listened,  but  his  eyes  never 
left  Viola's. 

"But — but  her  husband's  with  her,  Ian?" 

Mclvor  threw  out  his  hands.  "A  man!  and  a 
terrified  one!  What  use  would  he  be!  I've 
promised  to  walk  him  about — "  again  Mclvor 
paused,  listened,  "keep  him  going  till  it's  over.  If 
you  would  go  to  her,  Viola — she's  a  lady,  you 
know!" 

Viola  turned  away  rather  sharply.  "I  wasn't 
thinking  of  her  social  position,  Ian,  but  how  can 
her  husband  leave  her?" 

"But,  my  dear,  he's  never  stayed— she  prefers— 
not!  It's  too  shocking  for  him.  I  tell  you  the 
man's  unnerved  now!" 

[93] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 

Again  the  odd  little  cry  struggled  out  into  the 
corridor.  Every  vestige  of  color  left  Viola's  face, 
but  she  moved  decisively. 

"I  know  nothing,  Ian,  nothing — but  at  least,  as 
you  say,  I'm  a  woman — " 

"Good!    Come,  my  dear,  this  way!" 

Warmth  glowed  at  Mclvor's  heart,  for  he  had 
known  one  moment  of  doubt. 

At  the  end  of  the  corridor  they  almost  stumbled 
over  a  gentlemanly  figure,  in  clergyman's  dress, 
that  was  pressed  against  the  wall,  with  two  large, 
well-formed  hands  held  to  its  ears.  At  sight  of 
Viola  the  figure  became  animated — the  Reverend 
Macready  grasped  her  hands  without  ceremony. 
His  large,  pallid  and  distressed  face  relaxed 
piteously.  Viola  was  afraid  he  was  going  to 
cry. 

The  reverend  gentleman  tapped  gently  on  the 
door>  opened  it  gingerly,  and  in  a  shaking  voice, 
announced,  "Mrs.  Mclvor,  Dora,"  to  the  unseen 
inhabitant. 

Then  the  two  gentlemen  linked  arms,  and  after 
begging  to  be  sent  for  when  there  was  news, 
walked  rapidly  away. 

Viola  hesitated  on  the  threshold.  A  faint  voice 
had  replied  to  its  lord. 

"I'm  sure  it's  very  kind  of  her,  John  dear.  Now 
you  won't  mind  leaving  me — till  the  doctor  comes. 
I'm  easier  now — quite  all  right."  The  small  voice 
had  finished  heroically,  if  somewhat  abruptly.  As 
John  departed  down  the  passage,  however,  it  spoke 

[94] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


again — it  broke  on  the  words  of  agony,  "My  God— 
my  God — how  much  longer!" 

Then   Viola   went    in  quickly,  and  closed    the 
door. 


95 


CHAPTER  XI 

It  was  morning  when  Viola  came  out  of  the 
Macreadys'  room.  There  was  even  pale  sunshine 
that  looked  as  though  it,  too,  were  exhausted  from 
the  rigors  of  the  night.  Leone  had  tidied  things — 
had  found  some  valley  lilies  and  put  their  white, 
waxen  flowers  and  delicate  green  leaves  on  the 
writing  table  with  a  morning  paper. 

Dr.  Alan  Joyce,  who  had  come  to  the  hotel  about 
four  in  the  morning,  came  in  with  Viola.  He  was  a 
man  of  fifty,  of  middle  height,  heavily  built,  with 
thick,  dark  hair  and  a  grizzled  beard.  He  wore 
spectacles,  and  his  clothes  had  never  been  pressed 
since  the  day  he  bought  them. 

He  seated  Viola  carefully,  looked  about  for  the 
bell  and  rang  it.  When  it  was  answered  by  an 
astonished-looking  boy,  he  ordered: 

"Coffee,  two  cups,  please,  and  without  cream." 

Then  he  moved  away  from  Viola,  and  picked  up 
the  paper.  The  sheets  gave  out  the  peculiar  smell  of 
printers'  ink,  and  crackled  as  though  they  had  been 
starched.  Viola  watched  him  as  he  read — watch 
ed  his  large  hands  as  they  folded  the  pages  deftly. 

"I  always  make  such  a  wreck  out  of  a  news 
paper,  Dr.  Joyce." 

"They  are  not  made  for  ladies'  hands,  Mrs. 
Mclvor — they  soil  you." 

[96] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 

He  looked  over  his  glasses  kindly  at  Viola,  but 
she  avoided  his  glance.  The  coffee  came,  a  fire  was 
lit,  and  presently  Mclvor,  looking  pale  and 
disheveled,  came  in.  He  went  at  once  to  the 
doctor. 

"What  an  appalling  thing,  Dr.  Joyce.  I  know 
you  did  all  anyone  humanly  could.  Macready 
fully  realizes  it.  But  to  be  left,  as  he  is,  with 
young  children — "  Mclvor  cleared  his  throat. 
"She  was  a  young  woman,  too!'*  he  added. 

"Yes,"  agreed  Dr.  Joyce.  "She  was  a  young 
woman.  And  a  brave  one." 

"But  to  die !  Why,  she  spoke  quite  cheerfully  to 
her  husband,  just  as  he  left  her  the  last  time.  I 
heard  her  voice." 

"Then  that  is  a  good  thing  for  him  to  remem 
ber."  Dr.  Joyce  got  up  heavily. 

"I  will  be  back  later — and  if  you  will  take  my 
advice,  Mrs.  Mclvor,  you  will  get  some  rest." 
The  door  closed  behind  him. 

"Yes,  Viola — you  must  be  worn  out.    I'll  go — " 

Thrusting  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  Mclvor 
began  striding  up  and  down  the  room.  His 
imagination,  usually  under  excellent  control,  was 
in  a  state  of  rebellion.  It  scourged  the  com 
placency  of  his  accepted  views  of  life.  That  women 
suffered  when  they  gave  a  new  life  to  the  world,  he 
of  course  knew.  But  they  soon,  and  gladly,  forgot 
their  hour  of  pain,  in  the  joy  of  their  children. 
They  went  down,  unafraid,  for  a  moment  of  dark 
ness,  to  emerge  triumphant  into  the  light  of 

[97] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


mother  love.  Men  knew  this,  and  were  able  to 
accept  it,  knowing  that  their  gift  of  a  child  to  the 
woman  they  loved,  was  the  crown  of  her  woman 
hood.  Surely  that  was  so.  But  Macready's  wife 
had  died.  She  had  gone  into  the  darkness — and 
she  had  not  returned.  She  had  been  tortured. 
And  Viola  had  seen  that  agony — had  perhaps 
comforted  it.  What  it  must  have  been  to  see,  to 
stand  by,  and  watch  the  little  creature  suffer, 
endure,  be  overwhelmed!  Mclvor  remembered 
Dora  Macready  perfectly.  She  was  a  small,  fair 
woman,  with  soft,  appealing  blue  eyes,  and  a  com 
plexion  that  got  faintly  pink  when  she  was  spoken 
to  sharply.  Macready  had  sometimes  done  that — 
he  was  a  good  fellow,  but  the  noise  the  children 
made  irritated  him,  and  he  naturally  enough 
would  call  to  his  wife. 

But  he  loved  her,  of  course,  and  she  had  left  him. 
Mclvor  found  himself  thinking  resentfully,  "She 
chose  to  leave  him — women  are  not  supposed  to 
die — she  could  have  fought  harder!"  He  even 
formed  the  words  with  his  lips. 

Viola  spoke  to  him:  "What  is  it,  Ian?  What 
are  you  saying?'*  And  Mclvor  felt  the  blood  rush 
to  his  face. 

"It's — nothing,  Viola — I  am  thinking  of 
Macready — and  you." 

Viola  stood  up.  "I  was  not  thinking  of  him.  If 
you  don't  mind  I  will  rest  a  little." 

Unconsciously,  Mclvor  waited  for  Viola  to  speak 
to  him,  to  tell  him  something  of  her  initiation  into 

[98] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 

the  mystery  of  woman's  terrible  hour.  He  longed 
to  be  reassured,  to  hear  that  this  tragedy  was 
exceptional,  but  Viola's  words,  "I  know  nothing, 
Ian,  absolutely  nothing,"  came  back  to  him.  She 
had  been  ignorant,  and  he  had  sent  her  in  to 
knowledge.  Had  thrust  her,  without  warning, 
before  revelation.  And  his  imagination  that  pic 
tured  Dora  Macready  as  man's  victim,  pictured 
Viola  with  her. 

He  covered  his  eyes  for  a  moment.  His  temples 
were  throbbing,  and  he  felt  like  a  man  in  night 
mare  who  assumes  griefs  that  are  not  his  own. 
His  common  sense  stirred,  protested  against  the 
injustice  of  such  thoughts.  Viola  had  done  what 
was  right,  what  was  womanly,  had  obeyed  her  own 
heart,  and  not  his  request.  She  was  his  comrade, 
his  helpmate,  not  an  exotic  to  be  sheltered,  pro 
tected  from  all  the  realities  of  life.  And  he  would 
have  acted  basely  towards  her  had  he  treated  her 
as  one. 

Mclvor  recalled  the  night  that  he  had  met 
Viola,  and  the  feeling  of  depression  that  had 
flooded  him,  as  he  looked  at  the  wintry  London 
sky  before  he  went  into  Lady  Mallor ing's.  He  had 
felt  conscious  of  impending  calamity,  almost  as 
though  words  of  warning  had  been  whispered  in 
his  ear  on  that  night — and  he  had  gone  in,  to  meet 
Viola,  and  thus  proved  that  mood  absurd,  as  this 
was.  He  would  drown  the  voice  of  hysteria  and 
morbid  introspection  that  told  him  Viola's  inno 
cence  had  perished  as  Dora  Macready  and  the 

[99] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


little  child  had  done.     He  would  still  that  voice 
with  Viola's  assurance. 

He  looked  up,  but  she  was  no  longer  in  the 
sitting  room.  Walking  resolutely  to  her  door,  he 
turned  the  handle.  Leone  appeared  in  the  aper 
ture.  Her  black  eyes  burned  with  malice.  She 
raised  a  clever  and  somehow  unscrupulous-looking 
finger  to  her  pale  lips. 

"Madame  sleeps,  M'sieur,  she  is  exhausted — 
she  asks — that  you  will  not  disturb  her— 
"But  surely,  she  is  not  asleep,  already?" 
"M'sieur,  can  judge!    after  last  night!" 
Leone  put  her  hand  on  the  inner  knob,  and  began 
slowly  to  exert  a  slight  pressure  on  it. 

At  once  Mclvor  stepped  back  and  the  door 
softly  closed.  The  answer  he  had  longed  for  had 
been  given  him  by  the  lips  of  the  French  maid. 


loo] 


CHAPTER  XII 

The  next  morning  the  Mclvors  went  on.  The 
pale  sunshine  of  the  previous  day  that  had  con 
tended  feebly  with  the  native  mists,  succumbed  to 
them,  and  was  further  obliterated  by  angry  gusts 
of  rain,  driven  by  cold  blasts  from  the  sea.  The 
windows  of  the  railway  carriage  were  hopelessly 
blurred,  excluding  even  the  faintest  glimpse  of 
landmarks  Mclvor  longed  to  point  out.  Emerging 
from  the  long  tunnel  into  the  country  from  which, 
on  a  clear  day,  one  may  see  the  Menai  Bridge,  Ian 
made  a  fruitless  and  somewhat  absurd  effort  to 
clear  a  tiny  space  of  window  glass,  for  Viola  to  peep 
through.  As  she  saw  his  disappointment  at  being 
unable  to  exhibit  this  prodigy  of  engineering  feats, 
Viola  was  conscious  of  astonishment  at  the  trace  of 
boyishness  in  her  husband.  The  length  and  thick 
ness  of  the  supporting  chains  was  imparted  with 
empressement,  and  the  name  of  Telford  spoken  in  a 
tone  that  asked  for  a  responsive  exchange  of 
admiration. 

Being  possessed  of  a  nature  that  clamored  to  give 
always  what  was  asked  of  it,  Viola  did  her  best  to 
be  appreciative. 

"It  is  splendid,  I'm  sure — the  rain  is  too  dis 
appointing.  There's  something — a  rhyme,  I 
think—" 

[101] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


"My  dear  Viola,  a  rhyme?'' 
"Yes— O,  what  is  it?" 

'  'I  heard  him  then,  for  I  had  just 

Completed  my  design 
To  keep  the  Menai  Bridge  from  rust 
By  boiling  it  in  wine!' 

"That's  it!    What  a  lamb  Lewis  Carroll  was!" 

Mclvor  tried  to  smile  indulgently,  but  the 
interest  had  gone  from  his  expression,  and  he 
looked  reserved  and  withdrawn  into  himself.  He 
did  not  attempt  to  show  Viola  anything  more,  nor 
even  to  talk  with  her.  As  she  stole  a  glance  at 
him  from  her  corner  and  the  book  she  had  picked 
up,  Viola  felt  repelled,  almost  as  though  she  was 
physically  chilled  by  his  detachment.  She  also 
felt  as  though  this  journey  would  never  end — that 
it  might  be  broken  into  again  by  another  tragedy, 
arrested  in  some  dreary  twilight  of  unreality,  but 
that  a  final  destination  would  never  be  reached. 
The  sound  of  the  train  merged  with  the  uproar 
made  by  the  angry  water  of  the  Sient  and  Menai 
Straits,  as  it  flashed  by  the  gray  walls  of 
Carnarvon. 

At  Afon  Wen  the  door  of  their  carriage  was 
flung  open,  their  luggage  gathered  up,  and  they 
themselves  changed  into  a  car  of  the  L.  N.  W.  R. 
Veils  of  gray  mist  seemed  to  unite  the  waters  of  the 
harbour  with  the  lowering  heavens,  from  which 
torrents  of  heavy  rain  fell,  as  though  it  were  being 
shaken  out  of  a  bag  by  an  angry  hand.  A  semi- 

[102] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


circle  of  beach  along  which  clouds  of  sand  were 
driven,  was  headed  by  an  esplanade. 

As  Mclvor  settled  their  things  into  place,  he 
wanted  to  tell  Viola  how  beastly  he  thought  the 
weather  was,  and  how  responsible  he  felt  for  it. 
As  he  looked  at  her  delicate  little  face,  framed  in 
the  dark  fur  collar  of  her  warm  cloak,  he  was  again 
assailed  by  doubts.  Perhaps  she  was  only  a  child, 
a  beautiful,  unawakened  fairy  whom  he  was 
brutally  subjecting  to  reality.  But  he  knew  now 
that  he  could  not  ask  her  the  question  he  had  been 
so  ready  to  last  night,  any  more  than  he  could 
deplore  to  her  the  discomforts  of  their  journey. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Mclvor  was  afraid  to 
know  truth.  And  in  his  fear  was  something 
chivalrous,  delicate,  to  his  wife.  It  was  his  refusal 
to  believe  her  less  true  to  a  fine  conception  and 
ideal  of  life  than  himself. 

Twilight  came  swiftly,  came  as  the  culmination 
of  gray  through  which  they  journeyed.  At  Glas 
Ogven  they  left  the  train.  Huge  cliffs  towered 
above  and  behind  the  little  village,  that  was 
menaced  by  the  sea  on  one  side,  but  protected  on 
the  other  by  an  embankment  built  by  Mclvor's 
great  grandfather  across  the  estuary  to  reclaim  the 
Traeth  Mawr. 

Leaving  the  train  to  enter  a  carriage,  piled  high 
with  warm  rugs  and  drawn  by  two  horses,  Viola's 
impression  of  dream  and  unreality  deepened.  The 
evening  sky  was  obscured  with  vapour,  except  for  a 
thin  line  of  pale  lemon  color  in  the  west  against  the 

[103] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


farthest  horizon  of  the  ocean.  Its  effect  was 
melancholy — a  light  to  expose  darkness,  not  to 
dispel  it,  and  in  whose  sad  prescience  the  gray 
slate  cottages  of  the  village  seemed  broken  bits  of 
rock  fallen  from  the  giant  cliffs  above  them. 

The  horses  broke  into  a  quick  trot  on  the  uneven 
road  that  began  at  once  to  ascend.  On  one  side 
the  Conway  slipped  with  slow  whisperings  between 
its  mossy  banks  that  harbored  clusters  of  colum 
bine,  spotted  foxgloves,  and  birches  that  gleamed 
delicately  white  against  the  dark  water.  Very 
soon  the  horses  began  to  strain  at  the  traces,  as  the 
road  grew  steeper  and  beset  with  rocks,  whose 
jagged  outlines  suggested  the  ferocity  of  wild 
beasts.  Through  an  occasional  opening  in  the 
barrier  of  granite,  Viola  had  glimpses  of  an 
immense  sweep  of  gorse-clad  plain.  A  cold  wind 
blowing  from  the  great  spaces  bore  a  salt  tang,  a 
scent  of  heather  and  bracken,  and  in^its  voice,  the 
infinite  sad  sound  of  the  sea. 

After  an  hour's  riding,  Mclvor  longed  to  tell 
Viola  they  were  approaching  Trevwithin,  and  that 
on  the  plain  below  was  the  slate  quarry.  But  the 
keen  wind  that  braced  and  welcomed  him  as  it 
stung  his  face,  had  made  Viola  draw  warm  wraps 
about  her  until  even  her  head  disappeared  beneath 
them.  Leone,  her  spirit  completely  broken,  col 
lapsed  upon  the  impersonal  shoulder  presented  by 
Mclvor's  driver. 

At  last  the  horses  stopped,  and  their  feet  rang 
upon  stone.  A  torch  flared  and  writhed  in  the 

[104] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


night  air,  lighting  the  gateway  of  the  castle. 
Viola,  roused  by  Mclvor's  voice,  looked  up  at  a 
frowning  tower  that  bore  low  on  its  face  sinister 
slits  for  defense.  Above  them,  the  figure  of  a 
saint,  in  a  niche — to  the  right  and  left,  turrets 
rising  above  the  walls. 

In  answer  to  Mclvor's  call,  a  man's  figure 
sprang  out,  the  gates  drew  back,  and  the  horses 
drove  quickly  into  the  courtyard  and  up  to  the 
castle.  A  pool  of  light  fell  on  the  stone  stairs. 
Mounting  them  Mclvor  drew  Viola  into  a  great 
hall  that  was  filled  with  a  strange  sound.  Taking 
her  to  a  window,  he  flung  it  wide.  Below  them 
was  a  sheer  depth  of  cliff,  and  a  whispering, 
mysterious  expanse.  And  the  sound  that  filled 
the  castle,  that  breathed  like  a  presence  in  the 
great  rooms,  was  the  infinite  sad  sound  of  the  sea. 


105] 


CHAPTER  XIII 

It  was  hot  in  Kairpur.  The  white  light  of  a 
brazen  sun  beat  down  on  the  gray  dust  of  Harold 
Gaunt's  compound,  and  onto  the  roof  of  his  dak- 
bungalow,  and  put  long  fingers  between  the  green 
shades.  Mrs.  Lathrop's  bearer,  seeking  admit 
tance,  looked  with  envy  but  also  with  hope,  at 
Gaunt's  tall  figure  stretched  out  on  a  cot  under  a 
moving  punkah.  With  a  profound  salaam,  Kali 
Bagh  awaited  attention.  He  was  beautifully 
oiled,  his  turban  was  immense  and  his  dhoty 
immaculate.  To  bear  small  notes  had  never  been 
without  profit. 

"Hazur." 

Gaunt,  who  had  been  asleep,  looked  up,  reached 
in  his  pocket  for  money. 

"You  have  something  for  me?" 

"Gee-ha!  hazur" 

Kali  Bagh  extended  his  mistress*  letter  deli 
cately.  Gaunt  took  it,  bestowed  largess,  said: 

' '  Tu  m—jane — suet  a . ' ' 

Whereat  the  bearer  salaamed  again  and 
departed. 

Possessed  of  the  letter,  Gaunt  seemed  in  no 
hurry  to  read  it.  Instead  he  packed  his  pillows 
behind  his  head  with  a  practiced  hand,  lit  a 
cheroot  and  looked  idly  at  the  plaster  ceiling  of  his 

[106] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


room,  that  was  washed  a  faint  green,  but  on  which 
brown  stains  were  encroaching. 

He  looked  older  than  he  had  when  staying  at 
Thorley.  A  sharp  attack  of  fever  from  which  he 
was  just  recovering  had  left  its  mark,  in  the  pallor 
of  the  face,  in  the  bistre  shadows  under  the  eyes, 
in  his  relaxed  and  emaciated  figure. 

The  small  room  with  a  cot  in  the  center  was 
utterly  bare,  except  for  two  straight  chairs,  a 
table,  on  which  was  an  untidy  heap  of  papers  and 
magazines,  several  months  old,  and,  as  always 
before  the  rains,  flies  droning,  buzzing,  their  fat 
black  bodies,  lethargic  and  torpid,  striking  the 
windows.  After  nearly  half  an  hour's  contempla 
tion  of  these  surroundings,  Gaunt  drew  out  Mrs. 
Lathrop's  note,  opened  and  read  it.  Then  he 
struck  a  match,  and  holding  the  thin  paper 
between  two  hands  that  were  transparent  against 
the  flame,  he  burned  it.  When  it  had  been  con 
verted  into  a  tiny  quivering  and  blackened  heap, 
he  dropped  back  on  his  pillows,  uttered  a  fervent 
"Damn!"  and  went  to  sleep. 

Mrs.  Lathrop,  in  her  pretty  drawing  room,  hung 
with  chintz  and  ornaments  from  home,  was 
waiting  Kali  Bagh.  She  was  a  little  woman, 
nearer  forty  than  thirty,  and  India  had  made 
parchment  of  her  face,  and  had  written  on  it  many 
things  that  Mrs.  Lathrop  thought  known  only  to 
herself  and  two,  or  at  the  most,  three  others.  She 
was  blonde,  with  rather  light  blue  eyes,  and  she 
dressed  excessively  well,  for  the  wife  of  a  man  in  an 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


inconsiderable  position  in  the  Civil  Service.  But 
perhaps  she  had  money  of  her  own.  She  was  at 
present,  and  in  her  way,  in  love — absorbingly, 
fearfully,  inconveniently  infatuated.  Perhaps  the 
end  of  worry  about  financial  matters,  which  had 
been  very  bad,  indeed,  had  something  to  do  with 
it;  perhaps  the  new  interest  and  activity  that  she 
had  found  and  exerted  on  Gaunt's  behalf  when  he 
was  down  with  fever  had  more  to  do  with  it; 
perhaps  the  knowledge  of  her  husband's  approach 
ing  return  from  his  unattractive  district  had  the 
most  to  do  with  it.  At  any  rate,  Mrs.  Lathrop,  to 
use  a  slang  expression,  was  decidedly  not  her  own 
man.  When  Kali  Bagh,  who  walked  as  one  having 
infinite  leisure,  made  a  languid  appearance,  his 
mistress  questioned  him  sharply. 

The  Sahib  received  the  letter,  but  had  at  once 
dismissed  the  bearer,  giving  no  answer. 

"Did  he—?" 

Then  Mrs.  Lathrop  checked  herself,  before 
falling  into  the  enormity  of  talking  with  natives, 
and  went  into  her  own  room,  which  was  light  and 
attractive.  The  bed  and  dressing-table  were  of 
wicker,  and  the  latter  held  in  a  large  silver  frame  a 
picture  of  her  husband  that  was  only  slightly 
flattering.  From  it  one  could  not  tell  whether  he 
was  a  short  man  or  a  tall  one.  But  Mrs.  Lathrop 
knew,  and  did  not  look  at  it.  Instead,  she  threw 
herself  on  the  neatly-made  bed  and  thought  of 
Gaunt — and  cried  a  little — the  kind  of  tears  that 
come  silently  and  swiftly,  because  the  trouble  that 

fioSl 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


they  spring  from  fills  the  whole  mind,  and  speaks 
aloud  when  there  is  no  one  to  hear. 

When  the  light  no  longer  came  through  the 
broad  leaves  of  the  teak-wood  trees  into  her  bed 
room,  but  had  moved  on  to  a  frangi  panni  tree 
that  hung  heavy-scented  blossoms  that  seemed  to 
give  out  the  breath  of  the  East,  over  the  garden 
wall,  Mrs.  Lathrop  got  up,  dressed  without  looking 
at  her  poor  face  that  had  red  lines  on  it  from  being 
pressed  into  a  figured  bed-spread,  and  began 
putting  things  into  a  dressing  bag.  Then  walking 
as  delicately  as  Agag,  she  left  her  house,  threaded 
through  the  garden,  called  a  ticca-gharry  that  had 
been  resting  in  the  shade  of  a  building  till  the  sun 
was  low,  and  was  driven  through  the  dusty,  baking 
streets,  almost  to  Gaunt's  bungalow.  She  pre 
ferred  to  walk  the  short  distance  to  the  compound, 
and  up  to  the  porch,  and  did  so  without  mishap. 

Gaunt's  punkah-wallah  had  deserted,  and  only 
the  flies  droning  heavily  were  able  to  see  Mrs. 
Lathrop  as  she  came  up  to  Gaunt.  He  was  still 
asleep,  with  a  little  pile  of  ashes  and  a  burned 
match  left  untidily  by  his  side.  Seeing  that  Mrs. 
Lathrop  smiled,  and  began  putting  things  to 
rights.  She  was  not  light  on  her  feet,  and  Gaunt 
wakened  when  she  moved  a  chair. 

He  lay  quite  still  watching  her. 

"Celia!" 

Mrs.  Lathrop  started,  and  dropped  a  book  she 
had  picked  up.  It  lay  with  its  leaves  crushed 
under  it,  and  Gaunt  frowned  both  at  the  un- 

[109] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 

expected  sound  and  because  he  was  fond  of  the 
book. 

"Hal!  That  stupid  bearer  did  not  bring  any 
answer — I  thought  I — I  would  come  for  it  myself 
— or  perhaps,  you  did  not  have  my  note  at  all?" 

Her  eyes  begged  of  him.     Gaunt  looked  away. 

"Are  you  turning  out  for  the  dance,  to-night, 
little  woman?" 

"Surely,  you  are  not  well  enough  to  go?" 

"I'm  better,  much.  Thanks  to  you.  I'll  be 
leaving  for  home  at  the  end  of  the  week." 

Mrs.  Lathrop  came  up  to  Gaunt's  cot  slowly, 
getting  down  on  her  knees  beside  it,  and  took  one 
of  his  hands  between  her  two  that  were  moist  and 
cold. 

"You  don't  know  how  I  care  for  you — I  oughtn't 
tovsay  this,  I  know,  but  I  don't  care  for  anything 
else — only  you— 

"Celia,  little  woman,  don't  and  please  get  up." 

Gaunt  tried  to  free  his  hand  but  could  not 
without  being  rough,  so  had  to  leave  it. 

Mrs.  Lathrop's  voice,  which  was  husky,  hurried 
on:  "Please,  Hal,  surely  you're  lonely  in  this 
place — I  could  make  it  all  comfy — and  cosy — I've 
brought  my  things — and  you  know  he's  coming 
home." 

Gaunt  put  his  arm  about  her. 

"But,  dear,  I'm  leaving — and  perhaps,  it's  not 
as  bad  as  you  think.  Perhaps,  he  will  make  you 
happy  this  time." 

"Happy!" 

[no] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


Mrs.  Lathrop  stood  up,  her  cheeks  burning,  and 
her  breath  came  through  her  nose. 

"Do  you  know  what  it  is  to  belong  to  some  one 
who  knows  nothing  about  you?  Whose  habits 
irritate  you — whose  talk  bores  you — who  thinks 
you  love  them  when  their  touch  sickens  you — who 
takes  your  virtues  for  granted,  and  only  speaks 
about  your  faults?  You  don't  know  because  you 
are  a  man — and  a  man  is  free — I  want  to  be  free, 
too — I'm  sick  of  pretending." 

Mrs.  Lathrop's  chin  began  to  quiver,  and  the 
ever  ready  tears  to  stream  down  her  cheeks.  She 
was  not  playing  the  game  cleverly,  or  even  toler 
ably,  but  it  had  ceased  to  be  a  game  to  her,  and  she 
flung  away  her  pride  so  that  Gaunt  might  believe. 
She  did  not  stop  to  think  that  the  sight  of  naked 
truth  may  be  repellent.  She  did  not  think  at  all- 
she  gave  herself  to  emotion,  and  was  betrayed  by 
it. 

Gaunt  got  up  from  his  cot  and  looked  out  of  the 
window  to  give  her  time  to  compose  herself.  He 
was  tingling  all  over — chiefly  with  irritation. 
Though  he  could  not  see  her  distorted  face,  the 
sounds  of  grief  were  sincere  and  penetrating,  and 
he  knew  that  she  was  looking  at  him  with  eyes  that 
were  far  from  lovely. 

"Don't  pretend,  Celia,  that  is  beastly." 

"Well,  then,  what?"  There  was  hope  in  her 
voice. 

"Why,  tell  him — tell  him  how  it  is  with  you. 
He's  not  a  bad  chap." 

[mi 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


"You  mean — tell  him  I  care  for  you?" 

"Good  Lord,  no!  Celia,  you  don't — you're 
nervous,  worn  out,  little  girl — this  climate  does  for 
everyone.  Go  back  and  talk  to — to — Lathrop,  and 
then  go  home  for  a  year." 

"When  do  you  go,  Hal?" 

"There's  a  P.  and  O.  boat  leaving  from  Calcutta 
in  a  week's  time.  I  can  make  that." 

"And  if  I  made  it,  too?" 

"Would  that  be  wise,  my  dear?" 

"How  prudent  you  are  for — for  me.  You 
didn't  use  to  be  like  that.  Have  I  done  anything 
to  make  you  angry?" 

"The  Lord  give  me  patience."  Gaunt  spoke 
under  his  breath. 

"Of  course  not.    But  I  have  to  think  for  you." 

"I    don't    want    you    to    think — I    want    you 


to—" 


Mrs.  Lathrop  went  up  to  Gaunt  and  put  her 
arms  about  his  neck.  Through  the  window  she  had 
seen  Mrs.  Godwin,  upon  whom  Kairpur  depended 
for  information  of  its  fellow  creatures.  Mrs. 
Godwin  had  on  a  huge  hat,  and  had  come  into  the 
compound  to  give  Gaunt's  Syce  a  jar  of  Cross  & 
Blackwell's — for  his  master.  But  the  hat  was  not 
so  large  that  Mrs.  Godwin  had  not  had  a  clear  look 
into  Gaunt's  sitting  room,  and  Mrs.  Lathrop's 
face,  before  she  turned  and  almost  ran  from  the 
place,  taking  the  Cross  &  Blackwell  with  her. 

Mrs.  Lathrop  dropped  her  arms.  "She  saw  us, 
Harold." 

[112] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


"Who  saw  us?"  Gaunt  whirled  around  on  his 
heel. 

"Mrs.  Godwin.  She  has  gone  now.  It  will  be 
all  over  before  the  dance  this  evening." 

Mrs.  Lathrop  drew  away  from  Gaunt  and  sat 
down  on  one  of  the  hard,  straight-backed  chairs. 
Her  figure  drooped.  She  looked  small  and 
wretched.  And  the  damage  was  practically  done. 
It  was  beastly  lonesome  for  the  poor  little  thing  in 
her  bungalow — it  wasn't  exactly  gay  for  Gaunt  in 
his.  She  must  have  taken  him  seriously,  always, 
•even  about  a  kiss  or  two  that  had  seemed  natural, 
but — not  important.  She  liked  him — she  wasn't 
afraid  of  showing  her  feelings — and  she  wanted 
him.  After  all — this  was  India. 

Gaunt  went  to  Mrs.  Lathrop,  and  put  his  arms 
about  her. 

Later  that  night,  Mrs.  Godwin,  unknowingly, 
spoke  truth. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

Lady  Adela  and  Pamela  were  sitting  in  the 
morning  room  at  Thorley.  Pamela  had  a  large 
basket  piled  with  small  but  heavy  garments 
within  reach,  that  she  was  systematically  reducing 
by  taking  up,  examining,  repairing,  and  putting 
aside.  Her  large,  capable  hands  moved  with 
decision  about  their  task.  She  touched  the  little 
jackets  that  had  been  molded  on  tiny  forms,  in  a 
professional,  almost  an  institutional  way — there 
was  nothing  maternal,  or  even  sympathetic,  in  her 
care  for  them. 

Lady  Adela,  her  keys  to  the  store-room  depend 
ing  with  a  rakish  air  from  her  substantial  waist 
line,  where  she  had  thrust  them,  was  frankly  idle. 
Her  kind  face  held  lines  of  disappointment,  almost 
of  sadness,  and  her  attitude  was  that  of  one  to 
whom  time  is  a  burden. 

"Well,  Mother?"  Pamela  emphasized  her  own 
industry  by  speaking  in  a  crisp  tone — her  mother's 
presence,  with  its  aimless  and  rather  dependent 
air,  irritated  her.  Her  fingers  flew  with  well 
directed  energy. 

"Yes,  Pam?"  Lady  Adela  brightened  at  being 
spoken  to.  She  had  been  afraid  to  interrupt 
Pamela's  concentration. 

"You're  going  up  to  write  letters?" 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


"No,  dear — at  least — I  hardly  feel  like  writing, 
though  of  course,  I  must  to  Mrs.  Wimbish." 
Lady  Adela's  face  grew  crimson. 

"She  only  did  what  was  right  in  telling  us  about 
Harold—" 

"You  mean  what  was  said  about  him!  spread 
about  by  those  disgusting  Anglo-Indians!" 

"It  was  not  easy  for  her  to  write  that  to  me,  my 
dear.  Both  she  and  the  Bishop  talked  it  over 
carefully,  before  she  did  so — they  wanted  to  do 
what  was  right,  what  would  be  the  kindest  thing 
to  us.  Personally,  I'm  glad  she  did." 

"Personally,  I  know  she  enjoyed  it — I  can't 
bear  that  woman.  Of  course,  you  will  tell  her  there 
isn't  a  word  of  truth  in  it — and  that  Harold  is 
coming  to  us?" 

"I'm  so  glad  he  is,  dear  boy.  Yes,  I'll  go  up  and 
write,  if  you  want  me  to."  Lady  Mordaunt  got  up 
slowly,  but  succeeded  in  sweeping  Pamela's 
basket  to  the  floor. 

"Oh,  I'm  sorry!    Let  me  put  them  back." 

"No,  Mother,  please!" 

"But  I  will!" 

Bending  to  the  task,  the  housekeeping  keys  flew 
from  her  belt,  secreted  themselves  in  a  trouser 
leg  of  Jim  Wattles'  little  boy,  and  thus  accom 
plished  a  miraculous  disappearance.  Lady  Adela, 
being  often  confronted  by  such  mysteries,  searched 
blindly.  Pamela  endured  it  as  long  as  she  could, 
and  then  firmly  sent  her  mother  upstairs.  Lady 
Mordaunt  went  quite  meekly,  knowing  that  the 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


curse  of  untidiness  that  she  suffered  from  was 
especially  trying  to  Pam.  But  she  was  worried 
about  her  eldest  and  dearest — the  child  did  not 
look  at  all  well. 

Pausing  at  the  door.  Lady  Adela  made  a  timid 
suggestion. 

"Pam,  are  you  sure  you're  quite  well?  I  know 
an  excellent  tonic.  If  you'd  only  take  it  for  a  few 
weeks,  I'm  sure  you'd  feel  better." 

"Better!  I'm  not  in  the  least  ill."  Pamela 
flushed  slowly,  and  apparently  over  her  entire 
body.  Mme.  du  Guenic's  observation  to  Viola, 
that  Pam  looked  thick,  had  perhaps  some  justifi 
cation.  Her  face  was  a  deep  red  now,  and  even  her 
hands  looked  congested. 

Lady  Adela  did  not  say  any  more  to  her,  but 
went  up  to  Viola's  old  room,  where  she  used  the 
writing  desk  for  her  own  correspondence.  Many 
letters  were  written  from  here  to  Trevwithin,  and 
Viola  knew  it,  and  loved  having  it  so. 

This  morning  Lady  Adela  found  it  very  hard 
indeed  to  settle  to  her  task.  She  wandered  about 
the  little  room  that  was  still  pretty  and  fresh,  but 
looked  mysteriously  deserted,  and  as  if  a  light  that 
had  once  burned  brightly  in  it  had  gone  out.  The 
dependence  of  inanimate  things  on  the  hands  that 
arrange  them — the  life  that  is  lived  with  them— 
occurred  to  Lady  Adela  this  morning  as  poignantly 
sad.  She  stroked  an  ample  chintz-covered  pillow 
tenderly,  as  though  she  would  make  up  to  it  for  a 
loss  it  had  suffered,  and  that  she  understood.  And 

f  n61 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 

then  the  absurdity  of  her  action  came  to  her,  and 
she  thrust  it  away,  and  went  to  the  small  chair  by 
the  fireplace.  A  fire  was  laid,  but  not  neatly,  odd 
scraps  of  paper  protruded.  Lady  Adela  removed 
them  and  put  her  hand  up  to  her  face,  and  pres 
ently  the  painful  tears  of  age  crept  through  her 
fingers,  mingled  with  the  soot  that  was  on  her 
hands,  and  streaked  her  face  with  black. 

When  Lady  Mordaunt  left  the  room,  Pamela 
found  the  store-room  keys  that  had  apparently 
ceased  to  exist,  without  difficulty,  and  at  once  put 
her  work  away.  It  had  served  as  an  outlet  for 
some  of  the  nervous  energy  that  tormented  her. 

In  the  drawing  room  was  a  large  and  very 
beautiful  Florentine  mirror.  Cupids  supported  it, 
and  from  its  position  on  the  wall  it  reflected  the 
color  and  movement  of  the  rose  garden. 

Pamela,  leaving  the  morning  room  and  crossing 
the  hall,  went  into  the  drawing  room.  Several  min 
iatures  hung  on  either  side  of  the  mantelpiece — the 
most  interesting  was  one  of  Viola's  father  as  a  very 
young  man.  There  was,  perhaps,  on  the  artist's  part 
an  almost  conscious  imitation  of  Lord  Byron,  in  the 
rendering  of  the  poise  of  the  fine  head,  ardent  eyes, 
and  too  sensitive  mouth.  The  other  miniatures 
were  of  estimable,  if  slightly  faded,  ladies  of  the 
Mordaunt  family,  in  varying  epochs,  and  with 
varying  features,  but  of  unvarying  gentility. 

Pamela,  however,  did  not  look  at  her  ancestors. 
She  went  at  once  to  the  Florentine  mirror, 
fashioned  to  hold  beauty  in  its  heart. 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


She  stood  a  long  time  before  the  reflection  it 
gave  back.  As  she  looked  indignation,  bitterness, 
and  self-pity  flooded  her  mind,  but  underneath  the 
waves  of  rebellion,  something,  that  would  not  be 
stifled,  pleaded,  and  struggled,  and  wept.  The 
eyes  of  ugly  women  have  many  secrets.  Some 
times  they  hold  a  Royal  Guest,  and  nearly  always 
they  betray  him.  But  the  tears  that  come  after 
are  one  of  the  secrets  that  they  keep. 

Pamela  moved  away  from  the  mirror  and  began 
walking  rapidly  up  and  down  the  decorous,  richly 
colored  room.  Words  rushed  to  her  lips  in  place 
of  the  mere  painful  sensations  she  had  been  suffer 
ing,  and  she  was  conscious  of  making  an  effort  of 
the  will,  as  she  let  the  words  escape,  as  though 
they  could  be  rendered  potent  by  her  strong 
assertion. 

"//'j  not  impossible — it's  not  impossible — it 
would  be  right  to  have  it  happen,  it  must  happen." 

Pamela  longed  to  seize  on  a  possible  event  that 
— it  is  true — she  had  only  glimpsed,  to  shape  it  to 
her  own  needs,  and  then  to  urge  it  to  a  swift  and 
tangible  completion.  She  did  not  feel  that  she  was 
ridiculous  in  her  heavy,  but  fiery  determination,  to 
make  Harold  Gaunt  her  lover.  Nor  did  she  con 
demn  herself  for  the  cruel  jealousy  she  had 
suffered,  when  on  Gaunt's  last  visit  he  had  so 
obviously  adored  Viola.  That  Viola  had  married 
Mclvor  and  thus  removed  herself  from  the  field  in 
which  she  had  the  unfair  advantage  of  her  beauty, 
seemed  to  Pamela  a  tardy  but  hopeful  sign  from 

["8] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


the  Powers  that  Be  that  she  herself  was  to  be  at 
last  considered.  Under  all  the  ugly  facts  of  her 
mental  and  moral  turmoil,  like  the  swirl  of  dis 
turbed  waters  concealing  the  reflection  of  a  star, 
was  one  beautiful  truth,  and  it  shone  with  the  pure 
fixed  purpose  of  a  star.  It  allied  itself  with  the 
forces  of  nature,  with  the  enduring  things.  It 
was  the  truth  of  love,  seeking  through  egotism, 
envy,  and  error  not  freedom  for  itself,  but  unity 
with  another. 

The  soul  that  can  envisage  the  eternal,  through 
love,  can  become  eternal.  But  there  are  many 
ways,  and  it  is  a  long  journey  to  perfection.  As 
Pamela  made  her  assertions,  aloud,  she  was  busy 
with  plans. 

Lady  Adela  had  received,  at  the  same  time  with 
Mrs.  Wimbish's  lurid,  if  reluctant,  account  of 
Harold  and  Mrs.  Lathrop,  word  from  her  nephew 
that  he  would  be  very  glad  to  come  to  Thorley. 
Around  this  fact  Pamela  built  her  hopes.  Because 
of  his  coming  she  was  glad  of  the  bright  sky,  the 
opulent  English  autumn.  She  was  glad  of  the 
dignity  of  her  home,  and  the  quiet  beauty  of  the 
room  she  walked  in. 

Going  to  the  piano,  Pamela  sat  down  and  began 
to  play  accurately  from  the  music  that  was  open 
before  her.  It  was  a  song  of  Viola's,  and  had 
suited  the  peculiar  quality  and  delicacy  of  her 
voice.  Pamela's  voice  was  larger,  more  resonant, 
but  lacked  the  color  of  Viola's.  The  song  was 
Leconte  de  Lisle's  "Les  Roses  d'Ispahan." 

["9] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


Pamela  did  not  imitate  Viola's  phrasing  of  the 
exquisite  words,  but  rendered  them  without  self- 
consciousness,  and  with  real  joy  in  their  beauty. 
As  she  sang  the  turmoil  in  her  mind  ceased.  She 
no  longer  thought  of  herself.  She  thought  of 
Gaunt  and  how  she  might  help  him  with  her  belief 
in  his  honor.  And  she  was  conscious  for  the  first 
time  of  the  star  shining  through  the  troubled 
waters. 

Lady  Adela,  who  had  finished  her  letters  and 
come  down  for  the  keys,  came  to  the  drawing  room 
to  listen,  and  subsided  on  a  chair  from  which  she 
could  see  Pamela's  face.  When  the  song  was 
finished.  Lady  Adela  smiled  happily. 

"How  nicely  you  sing,  dear!  I  do  like  that  little 
song.  It  always  made  me  think  of  odd  things — 
hot  climates,  and  strange  people.  Now,  of 


course — " 


"Yes,  Mother?" 

Pamela  looked  at  her  mother,  and  tried  to 
account  for  the  streaks  of  soot  on  her  face. 

"Well,  of  course,  now,  it  makes  me  think  of  cold 
climates — it  is  cold  in  Wales — and  of  Viola.  It 
seemed  so  much  her  song.  I  wish  we  could  visit 
her — don't  you,  Pam?" 

"Perhaps  sometime  we  may.  But  not  just  now. 
We  must  let  Harold  have  his  visit.  We  must  go  up 
to  town,  and  show  people  there  is  nothing  in  all — 
all  that  talk." 

"But,  Pamela  dear,  Harold,  you  know,  has  not 
denied  it.  And  he  must  know  what  is  being  said. 

[120] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


I  don't  mean  to  speak  unkindly,  but  Robert — 
says — " 

"Oh,  Robert,  if  he's  your  criterion!" 

"He's  a  young  man,  dear,  and  we  women  have 
to  accept  things  without  judging  too  harshly." 

Lady  Adela  sighed  and  her  kind  face  took  on 
lines  of  pity  that  contended  grotesquely  with  the 
soot. 

"Mother,  how  can  you  take  that  attitude? 
How  can  you  think  a  man  like  Harold — " 

"I  don't  think,  dear.  I  don't  know.  I  should 
love  him  anyway.  But  Robert  was  urging  us  to 
accept  lan's  invitation.  He  thinks  that  Harold 
would  be  very  glad  to  go  with  us,  to  leave 
London  at  present,  and  as  Viola  is  so  anxious 
to  have  us — 

"When  did  you  hear  from  her?" 

"Yesterday — poor  child.  They  are  having 
trouble  with  the  workers  in  the  quarry — " 

"Ah,  that's  what  interests  you!  I  hope  Mclvor 
holds  out — he's  quite  right." 

"Viola  writes  that  there  is  a  good  deal  of  ill 
feeling.  Of  course,  Ian  is  away  nearly  every  day 
doing  what  he  can  to  help  them  with  the  farming. 
Oh,  dear,  it  is  all  very  trying,  but  I  think  we  really 
should  go  to  Viola." 

Pamela  got  up,  and  closed  the  piano.  She  did 
not  feel  like  singing  any  more.  But  she  went  over 
to  Lady  Adela,  and  very  gently  with  her  own 
handkerchief  removed  the  soot. 

"Let's  leave  it,  Mater — may  we — to  Harold?" 

[121] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


Lady  Mordaunt,  astonished  by  the  evidence  of 
Pamela's  handkerchief,  smiled  gratefully. 

"Of  course,  dear,  naturally,  it  shall  be  as  he 
wishes.  He's  not  to  think  us  inhospitable.  But  I 
can't  help  hoping — " 

Pamela  laughed. 

"No,  Mother,  of  course  you  can't.  And,  some 
how,  I  can't  help  hoping  myself." 


122] 


CHAPTER  XV 

Evelyn  Malloring  was  distinctly  bored.  The 
world  in  which  she  was  obliged  to  go  on  living 
seemed  to  offer  no  adequate  reason  for  her  exist 
ence.  The  thought  of  a  winter  in  Cairo  was 
briefly  entertained,  to  be  dispelled  by  the  names  of 
her  acquaintances  that  were  to  seek  change  in  the 
land  of  the  Moslem.  A  mental  picture  of  Lady 
Mainwarring  shrouded  in  purple  veils  and  mounted 
on  a  camel,  attacked  Lady  Evelyn  with  the  vigor 
of  nightmare,  in  which  the  voices  of  the  Drum- 
monds  and  her  own  John,  droned  to  satiety. 
Italy,  the  Lakes,  Rome,  were  also  rejected.  There, 
too,  varied  by  an  occasional  and  astonishing  person 
who  was  "seeing  things,"  would  be  the  same  faces 
that  looked  at  her  across  London  dinner  tables, 
gossiped  in  drawing  rooms,  and  yawned  at  the 
theaters. 

As  an  exponent  of  the  new  faith,  Lady  Malloring 
felt  alarm  at  the  depth  of  her  ennui  and  depression. 
She  could  settle  to  nothing,  and  had  been  for  the 
last  ten  days  unable  to  inhale  through  her  left 
nostril  and  exhale  through  the  right,  according  to 
the  instructions  of  the  Brahmin  who  had  been  her 
guide. 

Now,  in  her  sitting  room,  done  over  from  a 
charming,  if  frivolous,  copy  of  Madame  de 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 

Pompadour's,  into  a  melancholy  yellow  apart 
ment,  that  color  corresponding  to  the  hue  of  her 
soul,  Lady  Evelyn,  enveloped  in  a  hideous  one- 
piece  garment  of  the  same  tone,  awaited  events. 
And  she  was  rewarded.  A  pale  footman,  who 
looked  as  though  he  had  been  grown  under  glass, 
knocked  softly,  and  presented  Mme.  du  Guenic's 
card.  At  once  new  life  seemed  to  flow  in  Lady 
Malloring's  veins. 

"Ask  her  to  come  up,  Dodson." 

"Yes,  my  Lady." 

"Or— no." 

Lady  Evelyn  looked  at  her  odd  and  depressing 
surroundings. 

"I'll  go  down,  and  you  may  bring  tea." 

Removing  the  one-piece  garment,  Lady  Mallor- 
ing  selected  and  was  soon  enclosed  in  an  elaborate 
product  of  the  Rue  de  L'Opera.  It  had  been  very 
expensive,  and  the  shop  was  a  smart  one — so  its 
owner  wore  it  with  touching  confidence. 

As  her  maid  gave  a  few  skilful  touches  to  her 
blond  and  wavy  hair,  Lady  Evelyn  mused  over 
her  visitor's  coming  with  interest  and  delight.  It 
seemed  Mme.  du  Guenic's  fate,  in  England  at 
least,  to  be  regarded  as  a  sensation,  when  she 
desired  to  make  a  call.  But  there  is  a  curious 
psychology  that  accounts  for  the  effect  some 
personalities  produce  and  the  reactions  they  cause 
in  others. 

Perhaps  Evelyn  Malloring  was  in  a  particularly 
sensitive  and  receptive  state  of  mind,  for  as  she 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


greeted  her  friend  warmly,  almost  effusively,  and 
urged  tea  and  some  really  delicious  and  intimate 
little  cakes  upon  her,  Lady  Evelyn  knew  that 
Mme.  du  Guenic  was  no  longer  formidable.  She 
had  been  that  always,  to  people  of  less  brain  than 
herself,  and  had  shown  very  little  tolerance  to 
those  of  her  own  sex  who  persisted  in  trying  to 
force  gossip  upon  her,  or  secrets  from  her. 

But  to-day  she  was  different.  Evelyn  Malloring 
knew  it,  and  curiosity  that  had  been  denied 
during  her  breathing  achievements  became  alive 
in  her. 

Mme.  du  Guenic  was,  as  always,  handsomely 
dressed.  Perhaps  there  was  even  a  little  more  care 
in  her  selection  of  the  exact  shade  of  brown,  to 
bring  out  the  color  in  her  remarkable  eyes — an 
over-emphasis  of  youth  in  her  very  erect  carriage. 

Evelyn  Malloring,  looking  into  her  face  at  some 
new  and  delicate  lines  near  the  mouth,  was  not 
afraid  to  make  inquiries,  or  to  proffer  any  informa 
tion  that  she  herself  might  have. 

"One  lump?" 

"Oh,  please,  none!  How  nice  of  you  to  ask  me, 
though,  and  not  to  recognize  at  once  a  martyr  to 
the—" 

Mme.  du  Guenic  paused  a  moment,  closing  her 
lips  decisively,  then  she  opened  them  and  finished 
her  sentence,  — "the  flesh." 

"As  one  prays  on  Sunday  to  be  delivered — 

"Tante  mieux,  for  your  charity.  But  I  mean  it 
quite  personally.  I  might  almost  say  in  person — 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


that  is  why  I  must  forego,  with  tears,  that  delicious 
cake." 

Lady  Evelyn,  feeling  refreshed,  and  conscious  of 
her  own  slimness,  took  a  pink  cake. 

"How  nice  of  you  to  cheer  me  up,  to-day.  You 
can't  think  how  dull  I've  been — " 

"Dull!  But  why?  We  French  women  hear  so 
much  of  the  English  woman's  interest  and  influ 
ence — your  life  here,  with  your  husband,  must  be 
full  of  interest — and  activity." 

"I  think  that's  exaggerated.  At  any  rate,  I'm 
sure  I've  very  little  influence — ' 

Lady  Evelyn  thought  of  Lord  Henry  Drummond 
and  her  John,  and  was  able  to  smile. 

"It's  people — my  friends — that  make  my  life  for 
me."  (Already  was  the  Brahmin  forgotten.) 
"And  I've  seen  very  little  of  some  of  them  lately. 
Perhaps,  you  can  tell  me  something  of  Viola  Mor- 
daunt — or  rather,  Mclvor?  No  one  has  seen  them 
— they  were  married— 

"They  were  married  at  my  home,  very 
quietly." 

"Oh,  so  they  were!  How  delightful  for  you! 
But  since  then,  I  hear  they've  gone  to  some  extra 
ordinary  place."  Lady  Malloring's  eyes  grew 
round. 

"I  heard  it  was  almost  savage — and  that  Viola 
was  really  in  danger  from  the  natives." 

Mme.  du  Guenic  put  her  cup  down.  "I've  just 
come  from  there,"  she  said  briefly.  She  had  to 
fight  her  distaste  of  Lady  Malloring's  curiosity. 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


"Viola  is  very  well.  The  life  is  naturally  not 
like  that  of  fashionable  London,  and  she  is  alone  a 
good  deal.  But  the  country  itself — "  she  shrugged. 
"I  could  only  look  and  marvel  and  exclaim, 
'Colossal!'1 

"Rough  and  wild,  you  mean?" 

Mme.  du  Guenic  permitted  her  eyes  to  become 
romantic. 

"It's  like  a  castle  in  dreams!" 

"Let  us  hope,  not  in  bad  dreams!" 

"Speaking  of  Viola,  did  that  cousin  of  hers 
marry  in  India?  Gaunt,  his  name  was.  I  thought 
at  one  time  there  was  an  understanding  between 
Pamela  Mordaunt  and  him.  But  nothing  came  of 
it?" 

Lady  Evelyn  brightened.  "Harold  Gaunt 
is,  I'm  afraid,  not  a  very  proper  young  man. 
There  are  more  than  rumors  about  him,  and  a 
dejected-looking,  married  person,  from  somewhere 
in  India.  She's  actually  followed  him  out  here. 
He  is  very  good  looking,"  Lady  Evelyn  added 
irrelevantly. 

Mme.  du  Guenic  listened  composedly,  as  she 
drew  on  her  gloves. 

"How  absurd!  that's  your  Mrs.  Grundy — for 
give  me,  but  she  is  so  quaint  in  making  a  nine  days' 
wonder  out  of  a  young  man!  At  any  rate,  your 
wicked  town  talk  has  not  reached  the  country,  for 
Viola  told  me,  before  I  left,  that  she  was  expecting 
Mr.  Gaunt,  with  Lady  Mordaunt  and  Pamela,  at 
Trevwithin." 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


"Of  course,  if  his  family  ignores  it — " 

"Let  us  by  all  means  do  likewise." 

When  her  guest  had  gone  Evelyn  Malloring  had 
an  inspiration.  She  looked  out  Gaunt's  address  at 
his  club,  and  then  wrote  and  sent  him  a  very 
cordial  invitation  to  dine  and  go  to  the  Opera. 
Having  abandoned  her  faith,  Lady  Evelyn  gave  no 
thought  to  Sir  John's  dislike  of  music,  and  thus 
unconsciously  demonstrated  the  power  of  free 
will,  but  she  did  bestow  thought  on  her  guest,  and 
wished  that  there  was  a  more  cheerful  production. 
Mclvor  had  been  bored,  she  was  sure,  but  it  was 
not  her  fault.  Perhaps  this  young  man  would  not 
be  so  difficult. 

"Besides,"  Lady  Evelyn  added  aloud,  "if  I 
should  see  him,  I  could  tell  if  there  were  any  truth 
in  all  that  talk." 

Going  up  to  dress,  Lady  Evelyn  walked  with  a 
light  and  cheerful  step.  She  paused  at  her  sitting 
room,  where  the  thought  of  Lady  Mainwarring  and 
the  camel  had  oppressed  her — summoned  a  foot 
man,  and  gave  orders  for  a  decorator  to  be  sent  to 
her  the  next  day. 

"I'm  going  to  try  something  Italian  this  time, 
Celeste,"  she  confided  to  her  maid. 

"An  interesting  period — something  mysterious 
and  weird.  I  wonder  about  a  Borgia  room?" 

Tapping,  and  coming  in  at  the  same  time,  as  was 
his  habit,  Sir  John  heard  the  question.  He  looked 
at  his  wife  admiringly,  and  gave  her  a  solid  marital 
kiss.  It  did  not  thrill  Lady  Evelyn. 

[1281 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


"What's  that,  pettie,  that  you  want,  that  you're 
going  to  have,  I  mean?  Another  Ba-Hah?" 

"No,  John,  I'm  tired  of  that.  I  want  the  room 
done  over."  Lady  Evelyn,  though  a  trifle  vague 
about  her  choice,  felt  confidence  before  her  hus 
band.  She  gave  him  a  glance  full  of  intelligence 
and  erudition. 

"It's  to  be  a  Borgia,  John." 

And  Sir  John,  not  to  be  outdone,  responded 
warmly: 

"Naturally,  my  dear,  just  the  thing  for  you." 


[129 


CHAPTER  XVI 

On  a  windy  evening,  the  following  week  after 
Mme.  du  Guenic's  call  in  Half  Moon  Street,  Viola 
and  Mclvor  were  without  guests  in  Trevwithin. 
They  had  dined  early,  and  in  the  large  drawing 
room  that  had  been  restored  and  was  hung  with 
Pompeian  red  curtains,  in  the  immense  fireplace 
of  which  great  pieces  of  beech  wood  burned,  they 
had  the  opportunity  for  talk. 

Mclvor  was  tired  and  despondent.  Affairs  in  the 
village  were  very  bad.  The  quarries  were  closed, 
and  the  men  in  a  sullen  spirit  that  refused  to  recog 
nize  any  attempt  on  the  owner's  part  to  assist  them 
with  instruction  in  the  cultivation  of  their  land, 
spent  their  days  in  idle  talk,  and  steady  drinking. 

There  was  distress  in  the  homes,  and  the  hearts 
of  the  women  ached  with  anxiety  for  their  hus 
bands  and  children,  and  burned  with  resentment 
against  Mclvor. 

Viola  had  made  one  visit  to  Glas  Ogven,  to 
please  her  husband.  She  had  been  charmed  with 
the  cottages,  that,  seen  on  a  bright  day,  showed 
walls  of  pink  and  yellow  plaster  under  thatched 
roofs,  and  bloomed  like  delightfully  colored 
flowers  behind  honeysuckle  hedges,  in  gardens  full 
of  foxgloves,  small  sweet  roses,  and  the  drone  of 
appreciative  and  useful  bees. 

[130] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


She  had  entered  one  of  the  cottages  to  leave 
presents  of  jam  and  sweets  for  the  children.  A 
dark,  shy,  and  exquisitely  clean  woman  had 
admitted  her  to  her  home.  Viola  had  crossed  the 
shining  brass  thresholds  and  sat  in  the  place  of 
honor  to  be  served  with  tea,  brown  bread,  and 
honey.  As  she  accepted  this  generous  hospitality, 
Viola  had  been  conscious  of  hot  anger  against  her 
husband. 

The  interior  of  the  cottage  spoke  even  more 
eloquently  of  the  loving  care  that  kept  the  row  of 
brass  and  pewter  mugs  shining,  the  floor  clean,  the 
quaint  latticed  windows  spotless,  and  that  cher 
ished  a  bright  geranium  in  a  pot,  in  the  kitchen 
window. 

Her  hostess  had  been  mending  a  tear  in  a  rough 
coat,  and,  at  Viola's  coming,  had  put  it  aside. 
But  while  Viola  took  her  tea,  the  mending 
went  on. 

"If  you'll  excuse  me,  ma'am,  I  would  like  this 
done  before  my  man  comes  in." 

She  had  held  the  garment  up  to  show  the  extent 
of  the  injury  done  to  it. 

"My  man  is  a  big  fellow,"  she  had  added,  in  a 
voice  full  of  pride. 

Presently,  two  children  had  come  to  the  door  and 
halted,  waiting  to  catch  their  mother's  eye — and, 
devoured  with  curiosity,  to  see  the  strange  and 
alarming  new  lady. 

Viola  held  up  a  package  of  sweets  to  show  them, 
and  they  walked  in  slowly,  the  smaller  boy  hiding 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


behind  his  sister.  Their  eyes,  which  were  blue 
and  round,  looked  out  over  two  pairs  of  fat  red 
cheeks,  with  expressions  of  longing  and  desire  that 
struggled  with  distrust. 

To  reassure  them,  Viola  had  smiled  and  put  the 
package  down  beside  her.  There  had  been  a  soft 
rush,  a  frantic  scampering,  and  a  maternal  admoni 
tion — but  the  sweets  had  disappeared.  As  the 
mother  looked  up  from  her  husband's  coat,  Viola 
saw  something  shining  in  her  eyes,  and  knew  that 
the  little  cottage  was  a  home. 

In  the  great  drawing  room  in  Trevwithin  Mclvor 
seated  himself,  with  a  sigh,  by  the  fire.  His  face 
looked  tired  and  strained,  even  in  the  soft  light 
of  the  wax  candles.  Viola  went  slowly  to  the 
piano  and  began  to  sing  "Les  Berceaux." 

"Le  long  du  Quai,  les  grands  vaisseaux, 
Que  la  houle  incline  en  silence, 
Ne  prennent  pas  garde  aux  berceaux, 
Que  la  main  des  femmes  balance. 
Mais  viendra  le  jour  des  adieux, 
Car  il  faut  que  les  femmes  pleurent, 
Et  que  les  hommes  curieux 
Ten  tent  les  horizons  qui  leurrent!" 
As  she  sang  the  song  of  the  sea  in  this  room 
where  its  sound  was  always  audible,  Viola  brought 
before  Mclvor   the  sight  of  swaying  waters,   of 
receding  ships — the  sense  of  death  that  is  in  every 
parting — but  also,  as  her  voice,  warm  and  pure, 
sang  of  the  mother  rocking  her  child,  Viola  brought 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


life,  and  love  before  him — the  very  heart  of  life — 
to  which  all  wanderers  for  whom  it  burns,  must 
return  from  any  port.  The  song  helped  Mclvor. 
It  braced  him  to  go  on  with  his  work,  to  stick  to 
the  difficult  task. 

When  Viola  finished  "Les  Berceaux"  she  left  the 
piano  and  went  to  Mclvor.  She  was  determined  to 
speak  to  him  about  the  village,  and  she  had  sung 
to  give  herself  courage.  She  had  been  planning  to 
do  so  all  day,  but  now  that  the  moment  had  come, 
it  was  very  difficult. 

As  she  came  near  him,  Mclvor  looked  up  at  her. 

"What  is  it,  Viola?" 

As  he  looked  at  his  wife,  the  realization  of  her 
very  great  beauty  surprised  him.  He  saw  also  that 
she  was  embarrassed,  and  hoped  that  she  was  going 
to  ask  a  favor  of  him.  So  he  waited  very  patiently 
for  her  to  speak. 

Mclvor's  direct  question  had  taken  Viola's 
small  courage  from  her.  She  had  no  idea  of  what 
her  husband  was  thinking — for,  though  he  thought 
her  lovely,  he  never  said  so — and  she  knew  that  he 
liked  to  be  quiet,  to  read,  in  the  long  evenings. 

"Is  it  something  about  our  visitors?"  he  asked, 
quite  kindly. 

"Oh — no — Ian — you  are  very  good  to  have 
them — and  I  am  looking  forward  so  much  to  seeing 
them — counting  the  days,  in  fact." 

Mclvor  winced,  but  said  nothing. 

"You  are  so — good,  Ian — to  me,"  Viola 
struggled  on.  "Perhaps  you  will  be  angry  at  what 

[133] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


I  am  going  to  say — but — I  can't  help  it.  I  must 
say  it.  It's  about  the  quarries — about  the  men  out 
of  work.  Do  please,  please  take  them  on  again. 
We  could  do  with  much  less — and  they  are  going 
to  suffer — they  have  such  ducky  little  houses,  Ian 
— and  you  have  always  been  so  good  to  them — 
they  can't  understand  this." 

The  feeling  of  warmth  and  bien  etre  that  Viola's 
song  had  given  him  left  Mclvor.  He  longed  to 
ask,  "Don't  you  understand  me?  Don't  you  know 
why  I  do  this?"  But  she  must  know,  and  he  could 
not  ask. 

"That's  just  it,  Viola.  They  must  understand. 
I  can't  pay  them  for  something  that  has  no  market 
value.  The  whole  situation  has  been  false.  I  have 
to  clear  it  up — and  I  mean  to." 

At  that  moment  Mclvor  looked  more  like  the 
picture  of  his  dissenting  ancestor  than  Viola  had 
ever  seen  him.  Even  then  she  did  not  quite  give 
up.  But  Mclvor  definitely  settled  it.  He  picked 
up,  and  immediately  became  immersed  in,  his  book. 

Several  days  later,  the  village  was  in  ferment. 
The  carriage  that  brought  Lady  Adela,  Pamela  and 
Harold  Gaunt  from  the  station  was  surrounded  by 
sullen  looking  men,  but  there  was  no  actual  demon 
stration,  and  they  reached  Trevwithin  without 
incident. 

Lady  Adela  had  been  numb  with  fear  and 
clasped  Viola  on  arriving,  as  one  might  who  had 
been  rescued  from  almost  certain  death.  Pamela 
went  at  once  to  Mclvor,  and  expressed  her  admira- 

[134] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


tion  of  his  behavior.  Harold  Gaunt  said  very 
little. 

The  day  after  their  arrival,  Mclvor  took  them 
about  the  castle.  Lady  Adela  was  reassured,  in 
daylight,  by  the  walls  and  gate  that  guarded  them. 

"Unless  they  could  climb  over,"  she  added 
anxiously.  Pamela  permitted  herself  a  look  of 
scorn,  which  she  was  immediately  ashamed  of. 

"Mother,  what  are  you  thinking  of?  They 
wouldn't  dream  of  coming  up  here.  Ian  has  only 
to  sit  tight,  and  they'll  soon  give  up." 

In  spite  of  her  championing  him,  Mclvor  was 
conscious  of  irritation  at  Pamela's  assertion.  He 
longed  to  be  alone  with  Viola,  but  he  longed  more 
for  her  to  understand  him. 

"You  are  quite  safe  here,  Lady  Mordaunt.  But 
I'm  going  to  ask  that  you  don't  venture  from  the 
grounds.  There  might  be  trouble,  and  there  is  no 
need  to  take  any  risk." 

"Indeed  not,"  Lady  Adela  had  responded 
promptly. 

"I'm  sure  it's  very  interesting  here — there  would 
be  nothing  to  go  out  for." 

Mclvor  turned  to  her  and  smiled.  She  gave  him 
the  feeling  that  she  was  a  firm  ally  that  did  not, 
however,  know  his  real  situation.  Mme.  du 
Guenic  in  her  very  short  visit  had  made,  he  was 
sure,  terrible  observations. 

But  Lady  Adela  seemed  to  move  in  an  atmos 
phere  of  trust  and  warm  affection,  in  which  the 
most  sensitive  might  be  at  ease.  And  Mclvor  was 

[135] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


sensitive — was  suffering  in  his  life  with  Viola. 
Behind  his  reserve,  fortified  by  pride,  the  real  man 
yearned  for  what  was  denied  him. 

As  they  walked  in  the  courtyard,  the  morning 
met  them  delicately,  filtering  its  sunshine  through 
vaporous  white  clouds,  and  subduing  the  sea 
breezes  to  a  nuance,  a  caress. 

Mclvor  turned  to  look  for  Viola,  but  neither  she 
nor  Gaunt  was  in  sight. 

"Shall  we  wait  for  them?" 

Lady  Adela  glanced  at  Pamela — and  hesitated. 

Pamela  spoke  quickly.  "Let's  go  on — that  is,  if 
you're  not  tired  showing  us?" 

There  was  an  enclosed  garden  at  Trevwithin, 
with  radiating  red  brick  walks,  clipped  yew 
hedges,  a  sun  dial,  and  borders  of  box  around 
irregular  beds  of  roses.  Every  morning  that  was 
fine,  Viola,  in  a  shady  garden  hat,  and  with  a 
basket  and  some  dangerous-looking  scissors  in  her 
hand,  went  there  to  choose  for  herself  from  the 
small,  deep  crimson,  and  very  sweet  blossoms. 

As  she  cut  the  flowers,  Viola  sang  a  gay  little 
song.  Her  clear  voice  reached  Gaunt  and  guided 
him,  and  he  waited  in  the  shadow  of  the  hedge  and 
watched  her. 

But  almost  at  once,  Viola  stopped  singing, 
turned,  saw  him — and  dropped  her  roses.  They 
made  a  crimson  stain  against  her  white  frock. 

"You  couldn't  have  heard  me?" 

Gaunt  went  forward  and  began  picking  up  the 
flowers. 

[136] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 

"You  must  have  felt  me  looking  at  you." 

Gaunt  stood  upright  and  took  her  hand — and 
again  the  flowers  fell. 

"It's  years,  little  Viola,  years  since  I've  seen  you." 

Viola  tried  to  speak.  But  the  sight  of  his  eyes, 
the  sound  of  his  voice — the  touch  of  his  hand,  were 
answered.  In  the  depths  of  her  heart  something 
stirred  from  a  sleep  that  had  been  like  death. 
Stirred  with  a  glorious  life,  tears  rushed  to  her 
eyes,  overflowed. 

"What  is  it,  child?    Did  I  frighten  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Viola,  "yes." 

"Forgive  me  for  it — how  beastly." 

The  winds  of  morning  touched  Harold's  thick 
hair  and  dried  Viola's  wet  cheeks. 

"What  a  place  to  find  you  in!  You're  like  an 
enchanted  princess  in  her  castle — " 

Viola  laughed.  "I  remember  playing  as  a  child 
that  my  poor  cat  was  one,  under  a  baleful  charm, 
and  waiting  to  be  released." 

"And  the  charm  that  could  do  that  was — what  ?" 

"It  was  very  long  ago — I  don't  remember." 

"Viola,  does  anything  seem  long  ago  to — you? 
Don't  you  realize  your  youth — your  beautiful 
youth?" 

Viola  turned  away  from  him. 

"Perhaps  I  seem  young  to  you,  Harold,  because 
you  knew  me — when  I  was — a  tomboy.  But  I  feel 
quite  grown  up — and  sedate." 

Gaunt  looked  at  her  differently.  He  was  trying 
to  see  something  beside  her  beauty,  for  in  her  eyes, 

[137] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


larger  and  darker  than  he  remembered  them  to  be, 
was  a  look  that  went  to  his  heart.  A  child  that 
had  been  thrust  into  life  without  preparation— 
into  knowledge  —  loneliness  —  fear  —  could  have 
looked  as  Viola  did.  And  she  had  cried — when  he 
first  spoke  to  her! 

Very  gently  Gaunt  felt  for  Viola's  hand,  took  it 
— raised  it  to  his  lips. 

The  sound  of  a  church  bell,  faint,  but  very  clear, 
floated  in  the  air.  It  recalled  a  day  set  apart  by 
man  for  worship.  In  some  mysterious  way  it 
transformed  the  delicate  shining  of  the  morning 
into  a  pleasant  day  to  go  to  church. 

Pamela  and  Mclvor,  ready  for  service,  came 
into  the  garden. 

"Macready  expects  us,  Viola — especially  to-day. 
I  think  we  should  go." 

"Yes,  Harold,  come  along.  He's  a  perfectly 
ripping  parson.  Has  lived  here  for  fifteen  years — 
isn't  it,  Ian?" 

"Quite  that." 

Mclvor  looked  at  Viola  a  little  impatiently. 
She  knew  what  a  point  he  made  of  going  to  the 
chapel — and  how  he  disliked  being  late.  Only  the 
family  from  Trevwithin  and  the  servants  attended, 
since  the  troubles  in  the  village  had  begun,  and 
Mclvor  felt  it  a  very  decided  duty  to  be  there. 

"Will  you  go  in  first?  I  shall  wait  for  you,  my 
dear." 

"Perhaps  you  know  Macready?  He  was  a 
fellow  of  Magdalen." 

[138] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


Mclvor  turned  to  Gaunt,  who  was  picking  up 
Viola's  roses. 

"No — sorry!  I  don't  think  I  do.  I  knew  his 
v/ife  years  ago.  I  am  anxious  to  see  her.  It  will  be 
a  surprise  to  her — won't  it,  Cousin  Ian?  Fancy 
living  here — 

"Pamela,"  Viola's  voice  broke  in  hurriedly, 
"Won't  you  come  with  me?" 

Gaunt  having  at  last  collected  and  secured  the 
roses  gave  them  into  Viola's  arms.  As  he  did  so 
he  saw  her  face  go  white  to  the  lips.  Pamela, 
watching  him,  saw  it,  too,  and  exclaimed: 

"Why,  Viola,  what  is  it?  You  look  as  if  you'd 
seen  a  ghost!" 

Mclvor,  who  had  looked  distressed  when  Mrs. 
Macready  was  mentioned,  frowned.  The  slight 
dislike  that  he  had  for  Pamela  deepened.  He 
turned  to  her.  "Let's  go  on — Viola  and  Gaunt 
can  follow,  if  they  like,  but  we  won't  disappoint 
old  Mac."' 

Though  he  felt  her  resistance,  Mclvor  took 
Pamela  with  him.  He  could  not  bear  to  have  Viola 
speak  without  reserve  to  this  girl — of  what  she  had 
never  spoken  to  him.  In  some  strange  way  the 
name  of  Dora  Macready  seemed  to  him  to  accuse, 
to  cry  out,  almost  like  murder  that  had  been  done 
in  secret — but  that  would  not  remain  secret. 

After  they  had  gone,  Gaunt  went  to  Viola.  The 
look  of  terror  he  had  seen  come  to  her  moved  him 
indescribably.  The  love  he  had  felt  for  her  seemed 
almost  overwhelmed  by  a  tremendous  pity,  until 

[139] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


he   touched  her — then   the   two   feelings   became 
one — and  mastered  him. 

"What  is  it,  Viola — tell  me — you  must  tell  me— 
what  has  he  done  to  you?" 

With  all  her  force  Viola  struggled  to  leave  his 
arms. 

"Nothing — Harold — nothing." 

"It's  about  that  Macready  woman.  What  about 
her — what  has  she  done?" 

"Don't — ah,  if  you  knew." 

A  picture  that  Viola  often  saw  floated  again 
before  her  eyes.  A  young  face,  pallid,  agonized — 
overwhelmed  by  death.  A  figure  in  clerical  black, 
shrinking  away  in  nervous  fear,  walking  safely  and 
strongly  out  of  doors. 

"I  know — you  have  seen  something  horrible. 
Tell  me,  little  Viola,  tell  me!" 

His  hands  pressed  heavily  on  her  shoulders,  and 
their  touch,  their  pressure,  banished  the  vision  of 
Dora.  In  its  place  a  feeling  of  tremendous  melan 
choly,  of  a  terrible  sorrow  that  was  like  the 
realization  of  love  lost  out  of  life,  filled  Viola. 
Tears  came  to  her  eyes — again  rolled  down  her 
face.  Her  body  shook.  It  was  agony  to  weep,  so 
the  tears  felt  as  though  they  were  oozing  as  blood 
would  from  some  fearful  wound. 

"I'll  tell  you,  Harold — she's  dead — she's  dead. 
But  that's  not  all — I'm  not  crying  only  for  her — 
it's  for  myself — I'm  afraid — I'm  afraid." 

Gaunt's  arms  were  about  her — her  face  buried  in 
his  rough  coat. 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


Leone,  who  was  looking  for  her  mistress, 
stopped  at  the  yew  hedge  for  a  moment,  and  then 
went  on  quickly.  There  was  a  smile  of  peculiar 
satisfaction  about  her  mouth  that  tilted  her  little 
mustache  amusingly. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

Gaunt  waited  for  Viola  in  the  courtyard  of  Trev- 
within.  The  great  pile  of  the  castle  reared  itself  into 
a  sky  of  faint  blue,  in  which  clouds  like  white  birds 
were  floating.  On  the  walls  that  enclosed  the  yard, 
brown  lichen  had  fastened  its  curious  life,  and  on 
the  green  lawn  the  sun  threw  lances  of  light. 

Presently,  a  figure  armed  with  an  umbrella  and 
a  small  book  appeared.  It  was  Lady  Adela,  and 
she  signaled  to  Gaunt. 

"Do  walk  with  me,  Harold.  I've  lost  my 
glasses — only  temporarily,  I  hope,  but  I'm  quite 
blind  without  them.  Please,  if  you  don't  mind, 
read  this  to  me." 

Gaunt  took  the  book  from  her.    It  was  a  copy  of 
Wordsworth,  turned  to  the  "Ruins  of  a  Castle  in 
North  Wales."     He  read  slowly,  in  his  pleasant 
voice,  giving  the  words  their  value. 
Through  shattered  galleries,  mid  roofless  halls, 
Wandering  with  timid  footsteps  oft  betrayed, 
The  stranger  sighs,  nor  scruples  to  upbraid 
Old  time,  though  he,  gentlest  among  the  thralls 
Of  destiny,  upon  these  wounds  hath  laid 
His  lenient  touches,  soft  as  light  that  falls 
From  the  wan  moon,  upon  the  towers  and  walls, 
Light    deepening     the    profoundest     sleep    of 
shade....' 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


"Ah!"  Lady  Adela  put  up  her  hand.  Her  voice 
was  quiet,  content. 

"That  makes  me  feel  that  even  old  ruins  of 
women  are  needed." 

Gaunt  closed  the  book  abruptly.  It  was  not 
possible  for  him  to  think  of  age — ruin  and  decay — 
even  with  their  gentlest  compensations.  He 
longed  to  tell  his  aunt  of  youth — and  of  something 
else  that  was  the  essence  of  youth  and  was  hot  in 
his  veins.  He  looked  at  his  aunt's  gentle  old  face, 
and  the  desire  to  speak  left  him. 

Lady  Adela,  glad  of  companionship,  took 
Gaunt's  arm  to  walk  with  him.  As  she  did  so  the 
umbrella  freed  itself  with  a  jerk,  executed  a 
marvelous  pas  seul  and  disappeared  triumphantly 
over  the  wall. 

Lady  Adela,  with  an  indignant  cry,  started  in 
pursuit.  Gaunt  overtook  her,  and  turning,  saw 
Viola,  looking  at  them  in  astonishment.  But  Lady 
Adela  wanted  her  umbrella.  She  waved  her  arms 
excitedly. 

"Go  on,  Harold,  before  it's  lost.  Is  there  a  gate 
or — something  ?" 

"Yes,  there  is  a  gate,"  Viola  called.  Gaunt  ran 
after  her  flying  figure.  At  the  gate  Viola  paused, 
confused  by  the  apparent  simplicity  of  the  lock. 
Gaunt  tried  to  help  her.  His  hand  touched  hers 
and  he  drew  back.  With  astonishingly  little 
effort,  Viola  was  able  by  a  slight  pressure  on  the 
door  that  was  set  into  the  wall,  to  open  it,  and  she 
and  Gaunt  stepped  out  of  the  castle  grounds. 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


They  saw  a  tremendous  prospect.  In  the  west, 
the  aspiring  outlines  of  the  Snowdon  mountains 
were  veiled  in  the  purple  mists  of  morning, 
through  which  the  sun  drew  color  that  was  like  a 
wonderful  harmony.  In  the  east  the  murmuring 
ocean  mirrored  the  blue  sky  that  it  gazed  on. 
Below  them,  a  mountain  torrent  flashed  white 
spray  against  gray  rocks — made  brown  pools 
where  slim  white  birches  waded,  made  banks  of 
bright  green  moss,  to  shelter  bluebells  and  brown 
snails.  Gaunt  and  Viola  were  standing  on  a  hill 
top — wild  grasses  blew  in  the  wind,  and  delicate 
white  harebells  hid  amongst  them. 

A  short  way  down  the  slope  was  an  avenue  of 
yew  trees  that  led  to  an  ancient  wall. 

Viola  turned  to  Gaunt.  "Now  I  know  what  an 
Irishman  means  when  he  says  'the  top  of  the 
morning!'  ' 

"I  wish  it  to  you,  Viola/' 

"Shall  we  see  what's  behind  that  wall,  Harold?" 

"Don't  you  like  it  here,  in  the  sun?"  There  was 
a  note  of  reluctance  in  his  voice. 

"Of  course.    We'll  wait  here  if  you  prefer." 

With  a  motion  as  lithe  as  a  boy's,  Viola  sat  down 
on  a  flat  rock.  She  put  her  hands  up  to  her  hair. 
The  tiny  action,  without  meaning  in  itself,  had  the 
almost  terrible  power  of  things  that  are  the 
repetition  of  a  past  act.  It  had  the  power  to  bring 
to  Gaunt's  mind  the  day  he  had  been  able  to  tell 
Viola,  after  he  had  stolen  a  kiss,  that  he  loved  her. 

"What  is  it,  Harold?" 

[H4] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


She  smiled  at  him.  Evidently  it  had  recalled 
nothing  to  Viola. 

Gaunt  flung  himself  at  her  feet. 

"It's  you,  Viola — I  don't  understand  and — and 
I  want  to,  for  your  sake — you're  unhappy.  There's 
something  wrong.  If  you  don't  want  to  tell  me, 
can't  you  tell  Aunt  Adela?" 

As  he  spoke  Gaunt  was  conscious  of  making  an 
effort  very  unusual  to  him.  He  was  deliberately 
forcing  a  confidence  that  he  shrank  from 
hearing. 

A  vivid  flush  stained  Viola's  cheeks.  She  looked 
away  from  him. 

"No,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "No.  It's 
nothing.  I'm  very  silly.  Perhaps,  I'm  nervous — 
like — Evelyn  Malloring,  and  had  better  take  up 
her  cult." 

Gaunt  frowned.  "Don't,  Viola,  I  thought  you 
trusted  me — don't  laugh  at  me." 

"But  I  wasn't!  It's  so  long  since  I've  seen  you. 
Do  tell  me  what  you've  been  doing.  I  was  in  Nice 
when  we  heard  you'd  gone  back  to  India. 

"I  remember  about  that  native — how  splendid 
it  was — you  killing  him." 

"My  dear  child,  that's  a  flattering  but  un 
christian  remark." 

"But  really,  do  tell  me.  The  mere  thought  of 
the  East  fires  my  imagination!" 

"I  should  like  to  show  you  my  district — in  the 
proper  season,  of  course." 

"Tell  me  about  the  people  that  are  with  you — " 

[145] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


Gaunt  stirred.  He  looked  suddenly  uncomfort 
able,  as  though  he  had  on  the  moment  remembered 
something  unpleasant. 

"If  you  are  determined  to  let  me  make  a  bore  of 
myself,  I  do  solemnly  promise  to  tell  you  at  the 
right  time  of  an  Indian  mystery — and  in  the 
meanwhile,  let  us  not  waste  our  opportunities,  but 
examine  what  is  before  us?" 

With  a  quick  movement,  Viola  got  to  her  feet, 
and  they  picked  their  way  through  the  wild  grass, 
to  the  densely  growing  yew  trees.  Walking 
beneath  them,  they  were  in  a  twilight  of  green 
shade.  Over  the  entrance  of  the  old  wall  was  a 
quaint  bell  cot.  Viola  and  Gaunt  passed  into  an 
open  enclosure.  Before  them  was  a  tiny  church, 
and  clustered  about  it  crowded  and  forgotten 
graves. 

Reverently  they  looked  into  the  sacred  building. 
At  first  they  could  see  nothing  distinctly.  But 
gradually  by  a  golden  light  that  was  diffused  from 
a  glass  window  over  the  chancel,  and  that  repre 
sented  in  yellow  stains  the  Holy  Family,  they  saw 
the  interior  of  the  church. 

Over  the  chancel  was  an  oaken  canopy  painted 
in  red,  yellow  and  blue.  A  rood  screen  of  beautiful 
carved  wood  protected  the  chancel  space.  The  east 
window  was  choked  with  ivy,  the  floor  was  of 
slate  unevenly  laid;  through  apertures  in  the  roof, 
the  sky  showed  in  living  blue,  and  the  sound  of  the 
sea  pervaded  the  House  of  God  with  a  voice  like  a 
tremendous  organ. 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


As  their  eyes  became  accustomed  to  the  subdued 
light,  they  saw  that  there  was  a  worshipper  in  the 
church.  It  was  an  old  woman.  Above  her  thin 
brown  neck  that  looked  like  a  withered  stalk,  her 
white  hair  was  gathered  into  a  small  knot.  Her 
shoulders,  underneath  a  black  shawl,  bent  earth 
ward.  Through  the  flesh  of  her  face  might  be 
traced  the  salient  lines  of  her  skull.  Her  dim  eyes, 
as  she  lifted  them  to  the  altar,  were  bright  with 
hope.  As  Viola  looked  at  the  old  figure,  she 
dropped  to  her  knees,  and  Gaunt  knelt  beside  her. 

And  it  seemed  to  Viola  that  a  great  burden  was 
lifted  from  her.  All  the  doubt,  melancholy,  and 
sadness,  all  the  despair  of  a  loving  woman  con 
demned  to  do  without  love,  left  her.  For  the  first 
time  since  her  marriage  she  was  able  to  pray,  with 
the  feeling  that  her  prayer  would  be  heard.  Now 
that  feeling  sustained  her.  Hope  filled  her  heart — 
joy  flooded  her. 

The  old  woman,  her  devotions  done,  went 
slowly  out,  threaded  her  way  between  the  graves, 
and  disappeared. 

It  was  nearly  noon  when  Viola  and  Gaunt  came 
back  to  Trevwithin.  Luncheon  was  to  be  at  one, 
and  Viola  went  at  once  to  her  room. 

Leone,  looking  unusually  affable,  showed 
pleasure  in  the  practise  of  her  skill.  She  dressed 
Viola's  hair  high,  and  put  on  her  a  gown  of  clinging 
white  material  that  was  very  simply  and  beauti 
fully  cut.  When  she  had  quite  finished,  Leone 
drew  back  with  vociferous  admiration.  Viola 

[147] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


looked  at  her  in  surprise,  but  spoke  kindly.  She 
was  glad  to  see  the  girl  becoming  human  once 
more — and  glanced  at  her  own  reflection,  with 
surprised  pleasure.  She  had  color,  and  her  eyes 
were  smiling. 

Luncheon  was  served  in  a  tower  room.  The 
walls  were  hung  with  Gobelin  tapestries  woven  for 
Mclvor's  father,  and  representing  figures  from  the 
"Mabinognion." 

"A  maid,  whose  head  was  more  yellow  than 
the  flower  of  the  broom,  her  skin  whiter  than  the 
foam  of  the  wave,  and  fairer  her  hands  and  ringers 
than  the  blossoms  of  the  wood  anemones  amidst 
the  spray  of  the  meadow  fountain  .  .  .  four  white 
trefoils  sprung  up  wherever  she  trod.  And  there 
fore  was  she  called  Olwen." 

The  figure  of  a  youth  "upon  a  steed  of  dappled 
gray.  .  .  .in  his  hand  two  spears  of  silver.  .  .  .a  gold 
hiked  sword  upon  his  thigh ....  And  there  was 
precious  gold  of  the  value  of  three  hundred  kine 
upon  his  shoes,  and  upon  his  stirrups.  And  the 
blades  of  grass  bent  not  beneath  him,  so  light  was 
his  courser's  tread,  as  he  journeyed  towards  the 
gate  of  Arthur's  palace." 

They  were  figures  of  legend  and  romance — 
enchanted  castles  and  knights  of  tourney — woven 
in  a  maze  of  delicate  color. 

Massive  silver  candelabra  holding  wax  candles 
were  fastened  to  the  walls.  A  great  oak  serving 
table  extended  across  one  side  of  the  room,  and 
gleamed  with  silver.  In  the  center  of  the  room 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


was  a  long  dining  table.  On  it  was  a  silver  dish 
holding  Viola's  red  roses,  silver  serving  plates,  and 
glasses  of  uncut  crystal. 

Before  sitting  down,  Mclvor  drew  Lady  Adela 
to  the  window. 

"You  love  poetry — look  out,  and  admit  that 
Keats  has  been  here  in  imagination,  at  least." 
Speaking  slowly,  in  his  rather  deep  voice,  Mclvor 
repeated: 

'  'Charmed  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn.'  ' 

Viola,  as  she  listened,  heard  in  her  husband's 
voice  a  note  of  deep  appreciation.  She  remem 
bered  how,  in  a  garden  spot  of  southern  France, 
she  had  tried  to  share  with  him  that  beauty  of  the 
southern  country. 

Lady  Adela  was  delighted  with  Mclvor.  He 
had  seemed  alarmingly  formidable,  at  first,  but  in 
his  love  of  his  native — and  wonderful —  home,  she 
thought  he  showed  a  natural  pride  that  was  frank 
and  charming. 

And  Pamela  had  told  her  of  what  Mclvor  was 
doing  for  the  village. 

The  Reverend  Macready  lunched  with  them. 
He  dwelt  somewhat  gloomily  on  the  shortcomings 
of  the  poor.  They  offended  him  by  a  determined 
preference  for  beer  over  church  attendance. 

"They're  too  comfortable — they  won't  take  the 
trouble  to  come." 

[HP] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


Gaunt,  who  was  sitting  opposite  Viola,  looked 
up,  caught  her  eye. 

Mclvor  answered,  'They're  not  comfortable 
now  Macready.  They're  staying  home  because 
of  the  trouble." 

"It's  a  thankless  task,  trying  to  help  them." 
The  clergyman  sighed. 

Mclvor  turned  to  Viola.  "By  the  way,  what 
became  of  you  and  Gaunt?  Where  did  you 
go?" 

He  tried  to  make  his  question  casual  to  keep  out 
of  it  the  hurt  he  had  felt  at  Viola's  disregard  of  his 
wish.  In  doing  so,  he  sounded  coldly  indifferent. 

Lady  Adela  turned  to  Viola.  "Did  you  capture 
the  wretched  thing,  after  all?  They  went  after  my 
umbrella,  Ian." 

Viola  reddened.  She  had  forgotten  the  um 
brella — and  she  had  forgotten  the  Reverend 
Macready.  It  had  not  seemed  long  that  she  and 
Gaunt  had  been  upon  the  hilltop  and  in  the  little 
church.  As  she  hesitated,  to  her  relief  Pamela 
spoke. 

"It's  in  your  room,  Mother  dear — 

"As  it's  Sunday,  Mr.  Macready,  Ian  has  decided 
that  we  may  venture  out  of  the  grounds,  and  visit 
the  quarries.  They're  quite  a  way  from  the 
village — and  I  think  it  will  be  very  interesting." 

The  conversation  became  general.  Viola,  out  of 
gratitude,  relieved  Pamela  of  Mr.  Macready,  and 
by  her  unusual  cordiality  modified  that  gentle 
man's  gloomy  opinion  of  humanity. 

[150] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


He  had  been  unable  to  find  receptive  relatives 
for  his  motherless  children,  and  perhaps  it  was  not 
strange  that  his  domestic  troubles  colored  his 
outlook. 

After  coffee,  Pamela  and  Viola  went  up  to 
change  for  the  walk.  Lady  Adela,  in  temporary 
possession  of  her  glasses,  decided  to  stop  at  home 
and  enjoy  her  Wordsworth.  She  watched  the 
party  start  off,  and  waved  what  she  thought  was 
her  handkerchief,  but  discovered  to  be  Pamela's 
embroidery. 

Viola  and  Gaunt  were  walking  ahead — Pamela 
and  Mclvor  following. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

As  they  left  Trevwithin  behind  them,  Pamela 
and  Mclvor  followed  the  others.  Macready  led 
the  way  over  what  seemed  a  trackless  expanse  of 
rock,  yellow  gorse,  purple  heather,  and  bracken. 
As  they  descended  they  could  see  Glas  Ogven  in 
the  distance,  a  faint  smoke  rising  from  the 
cottages. 

Pamela  walked  well,  but  to-day  she  seemed 
absent-minded,  and  stumbled  once  or  twice,  and 
Mclvor  had  to  steady  her.  When  he  did  so  the 
second  time  he  noticed  that  her  eyes  were  fixed  on 
Viola  and  Gaunt,  who  had  fallen  behind  Macready. 

So  Mclvor  watched  them.  They  walked  per 
fectly  together,  and  occasionally  he  saw  Viola's 
profile  as  she  turned  to  smile  or  answer  her  com 
panion.  As  he  watched,  the  longing  to  be  with 
Viola  as  he  never  had  been — to  be  one  in  spirit  as 
well  as  in  body — almost  mastered  him.  He  felt 
that  the  force  of  his  love  could  compel — answer 
and  understanding  from  her,  if  he  could  only  give  it 
rein — and  he  cursed  his  temperament,  that  doomed 
him  to  feel,  but  to  be  dumb. 

Viola  slipped  and  Mclvor  saw  Gaunt  put  his 
arm  about  her  for  a  moment — and  in  that  moment 
he  felt  positive  hatred  of  Gaunt.  He  himself  could 
not  go  on  walking  until  the  arm  was  withdrawn. 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


He  was  grateful  for  one  thing.     Pamela  did  not 
talk  to  him. 

Presently  Macready  shouted,  and  held  up  his 
hand.  They  were  approaching  the  quarry.  At 
intervals  heaps  of  slate  and  refuse  had  been  thrown 
on  the  ground.  In  front  of  them  was  the  amphi 
theater — the  pits  and  the  idle  cars.  In  the  mourn 
ful  light  of  late  afternoon,  it  looked  like  a  livid 
scar. 

"Shall  I  go  ahead  and  reconnoiter?  We  had 
better  see  the  condition  of  things  before  the  ladies 
come  down." 

Viola  was  conscious  of  a  feeling  of  irony  when 
Macready  spoke.  His  consideration  for  "the 
ladies"  provoked  it. 

"I'll  come  with  you." 

Mclvor  joined  him,  and  the  two  disappeared 
slowly  into  the  pit.  Pamela,  who  seemed  restless, 
wandered  after  them. 

A  cool  breeze  sprang  up.  Viola,  who  was  not 
very  warmly  clad,  shivered  in  it.  Instantly  Gaunt 
took  off  his  coat  and  put  it  about  her  shoulders. 
The  touch  of  his  hands  as  he  did  so  told  her 
something. 

Fog  began  to  drift  in  from  the  sea,  and  lie  in 
long  wreaths  along  the  moors. 

"Shan't  we  find  the  others,  Harold?  I'm  super 
stitious — I'm  afraid  of  the  Gurach  Y  Rhybin,  the 
hag  of  the  mists." 

"You're  afraid,  with  me?"  His  voice  sounded 
almost  angry. 

[153] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


"Not  really,  of  course,  but  let's  move  up  a  little 
further.  Perhaps  we  can  find  the  sun." 

"Yet  it  was  you,  this  morning,  who  wanted  to 
leave  the  sun!" 

Viola  stood  up,  and  moved  away  from  the  shelter 
of  a  rock  that  she  had  been  sitting  in.  As  she  did 
so,  the  report  of  a  pistol  rang  out.  At  the  same 
moment,  it  seemed  to  her,  Gaunt  flung  himself  in 
front  of  her — covered  her  with  his  body. 

Mclvor  called  frantically,  "Are  you  hurt — are 
you  Kurt?" 

Gaunt  answered  him,  "No!  but  your  man  has 
gone  into  the  quarry — go  after  him!" 

"Right!"  Mclvor  called  back. 

"But,  Harold,  they're  not  armed!  Isn't  it 
dangerous  for  them  to  attempt  to  find  him  in  this 
mist?  That  shot  was  intended  for  us — for — for 


me." 


Gaunt  had  not  moved  from  where  he  had 
thrown  himself,  nor  spoken  since  he  answered 
Mclvor.  Viola  tried  gently  to  disengage  herself. 
As  she  did  so,  Gaunt  put  one  hand  up  with  an  odd 
groping  gesture.  Instinctively  Viola  took  his  hand 
and  immediately  hers  was  covered  with  something 
warm  and  sticky — his  arm  dropped  to  his  side,  .and 
his  face,  in  which  his  eyes  closed,  faded  into  a 
strange  pallor,  as  though  it  were  seen  through 
water. 

Terror  filled  Viola.  She  was  afraid  to  touch 
him — afraid  to  leave  him.  She  took  out  a  tiny  and 
absurd  handkerchief  and  dabbed  helplessly  at  the 

[154] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


blood  on  her  own  hand.  A  peculiar  salt  smell 
filled  her  nostrils.  It  sickened  her.  She  struggled 
to  her  feet  to  call  for  help,  but  the  thought  of  what 
her  voice  might  attract,  silenced  her.  Even  in  the 
growing  darkness  she  could  see  a  widening  stain 
on  Gaunt's  sleeve. 

He  was  utterly  helpless,  dependent  on  her. 
With  hesitating,  trembling  fingers,  Viola  lifted  his 
head  and  put  his  coat  that  had  been  about  her  own 
shoulders  under  it.  Then,  awkwardly,  she  un 
fastened  his  collar,  unbuttoned  his  shirt,  slipped  it 
back  on  the  shoulder,  until  a  small  black  hole, 
from  which  blood  was  flowing,  was  exposed. 

She  was  wearing  a  blouse  of  soft  white  silk. 
Hurriedly  she  took  it  off,  tore  the  sleeves  out,  and 
into  strips.  The  collar  of  the  blouse  she  folded  into 
a  soft  pad,  and  placed  over  the  wound.  Then, 
half  supporting  him,  she  adjusted  the  strips  of  silk 
as  a  bandage,  through  each  layer  of  which  the 
blood  seeped  as  she  bound  it. 

The  mist  was  all  about  them  now,  damp  and 
clinging,  and  obliterating  every  path.  Gaunt's 
hands  were  cold.  Taking  the  unhurt  one  between 
hers,  Viola  began  to  chafe  it,  rubbing  towards  the 
heart.  Some  forgotten  memory  seemed  to  say  to 
her,  "rub  towards  the  heart,  not  from  it."  The 
moor  seemed  full  of  whispering  voices — of  unseen 
eyes,  to  which  she  and  Gaunt  were  visible.  The 
night  was  malignant — a  cold  wind  that  blew  from 
the  sea  seemed  to  carry  with  the  cry  of  the 
Cyhyraith  that  portends  death. 

[155] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 

As  Viola  bent  over  Gaunt  to  cover  him  with  her 
own  jacket,  he  opened  his  eyes,  looked  full  into 
hers.  She  could  see  the  motion  of  his  lashes.  An 
immense  relief  came  to  her.  He  kept  his  eyes  on 
hers  with  a  steady  gaze. 

"Viola!" 

"Yes,  Harold.    Are  you  in  pain?" 

"No.    But  I  want  you  to  do  something  for  me." 

"Just  tell  me.  I'm  so  stupid — but  I  will  try  to 
do  anything  you  tell  me." 

"Bend  down  your  head." 

Viola  leaned  near  him. 

"I  want  you  to  do  this  more  than  I  have  ever 
wanted  anything  in  the  world."  His  voice 
stopped. 

"If  I  can—' 

"You  can,  if  you  will.  And  after  you  have  done 
it — I  want  God  to  let  me  die." 

"Harold  dear — "  Viola  strained  to  hear  him. 
She  did  not  hear  anything  else. 

"It's  this,  Viola — I  love  you — I  need  you — " 
His  voice  broke — then  he  whispered,  "Kiss  me, 
Viola — once — just  once." 

His  poor  voice  went  to  Viola's  heart — she  knew 
that  it  spoke  the  truth — that  her  kiss  would  mean 
much  to  him,  that  her  love  was  longed  for,  that  he 
felt  need  of  her;  and  she  contrasted  this  need  with 
what  she  thought  was  lan's  independence — and  she 
knew  what  it  was  to  be  hungry  for  love.  But  she 
was  thinking  of  her  husband  when  she  bent  down 
to  Harold — and  kissed  him,  tenderly,  on  the  lips. 

[156] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


A  beam  of  light  from  a  lantern  penetrated  the 
fog,  and  advancing,  revealed — Mclvor,  Macready 
and  Pamela.  The  men  stooped  at  once  to  Gaunt. 

Mclvor  took  charge,  directing  the  clergyman 
how  to  help  him  lift  the  injured  man,  giving  the 
light  to  Viola,  and  telling  Pamela  to  hold  Gaunt's 
arm.  Mclvor  took  his  head  and  shoulders  and 
Macready  his  feet.  In  the  confusion  Viola 
hurriedly  slipped  into  her  jacket.  As  she  did 
so,  she  saw  Mclvor  looking  at  her,  but  he  did 
not  speak. 

Very  slowly  and  painfully,  they  made  their  way 
up  to  Trevwithin.  Gaunt  was  heavy  and  the  two 
men  labored  under  his  weight.  Once  Viola 
stumbled  and  nearly  fell  over  a  bit  of  slate,  but 
Pamela  walked  steadily,  holding  Gaunt's  arm. 
No  one  spoke.  They  seemed  "like  shadows  moving 
in  a  world  of  shadow." 

But  they  were  shadows  with  flame  at  their 
hearts,  flame  of  love — of  longing,  and  of  jealousy. 

The  kiss  given  in  pity  and  taken  by  love  had 
been  seen. 

Mclvor  strove  with  the  fury  that  had  possessed 
him,  when  under  cover  of  darkness  he  saw  Viola's 
white  arms  bend  to  Gaunt — her  lips  touch  his. 
He  had  come  upon  them,  had  been  able  to  speak 
normally — to  direct,  when  he  saw  that  Gaunt  was 
wounded.  But  he  had  seen  every  action  of  Viola's 
as  though  she  had  moved  in  light.  A  power  of 
terrible  observation  sprang  up,  and  controlled  his 
first  impulse  of  destruction.  Under  that  scrutiny 

[157] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


Viola  put  on  her  jacket,  rearranged  her  disheveled 
hair,  guided  them  with  the  light,  and  stumbled 
over  the  rough  way. 

Mclvor's  hands  that  supported  Gaunt's  head 
longed,  with  an  almost  separate  life  of  their  own, 
to  cast  down  their  burden — to  leave  it  to  die  on  the 
moor. 

When  his  hands  seemed  about  to  assert  them 
selves,  to  perform  what  was  surely  his  wish, 
Mclvor  looked  at  the  stains  on  Gaunt's  breast. 
In  some  strange  way,  the  sight  of  his  blood  made 
it  possible  for  Mclvor  to  go  on,  and  stay  his  hand, 
for  the  time.  And  Pamela  had  seen. 

When  Gaunt  had  at  once  accepted  Lady  Adela's 
suggestion  that  they  come  to  Trevwithin,  instead 
of  staying  on  at  Thorley,  Pamela  had  felt  dis 
appointed,  had  been  made  miserable  for  a  day. 
But  they  had  traveled  together,  she  had  been  with 
Harold  under  the  spell  of  his  biue  eyes  and  careless 
voice;  she  had  felt  in  some  way — perhaps  absurd 
for  a  woman — that  she  was  acting  chivalrously, 
protecting  his  name  from  the  rumours  of  London, 
by  going  with  him.  She  had  felt  that  Gaunt  knew 
that,  and  perhaps  valued  it.  So  she  had  not  given 
up  hope.  For  the  time  Pamela  did  not  think  of 
Viola — did  not  think  of  herself — thought  only  of 
Gaunt  and  her  love  for  him.  But  to-day  she  had 
been  forced  to  think  of  something  else,  had 
watched  Viola  and  Gaunt  leave  the  courtyard 
together,  had  waited  for  them  to  return,  and  she 
had  seen  that  Viola's  eyes  were  smiling. 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


In  the  afternoon,  Pamela  had  walked  behind 
them — had  seen  how  Gaunt  watched  and  pro 
tected  Viola  from  every  inequality  in  the  path,  how 
he  bent  to  catch  her  words,  how  he  was  intent  upon 
her.  And  Pamela  had  gone  away  alone,  so  that 
she  would  not  see  this  intention,  to  return  to  see  it 
confirmed — made  fact,  as  a  sword  that  has  been 
concealed  in  its  sheath  is  seized  by  a  strong  hand, 
leaps  out  and  thrusts. 

But  her  hands,  as  she  held  his  wounded  one, 
were  tender.  They  guarded,  they  sheltered — they 
were  instinct  with  love. 

At  the  gates  of  Trevwithin  were  lights  and  men 
and  a  waiting  motor.  Viola  and  Pamela  were  put 
into  it,  with  Gaunt  between  them.  He  was 
unconscious,  and  his  body  leaned  heavily  against 
Pamela's.  At  the  castle  two  footmen  rushed  out, 
and  Gaunt  was  taken  to  his  room. 

In  the  great  drawing  room  Lady  Adela  was 
unconcernedly  reading.  She  was  often  alone  and 
had  very  little  idea  of  time,  so  that  she  had  not 
become  anxious  as  the  afternoon  slipped  away. 
She  was  happy  in  the  thought  that  Pamela  and 
Harold  were  together. 

Viola  wanted  to  find  her  aunt,  and  knowing  that 
she  often  sat  in  the  red  drawing  room,  crossed  the 
hall  to  enter  it.  But  Mclvor  was  before  her.  He 
did  not  look  at  Viola,  but  spoke  hurriedly,  in  a  dry, 
low  voice. 

"Go  to  your  room,  Viola.  I  shall  tell  Lady 
Mordaunt.  The  doctor  has  been  sent  for,  and 

[159] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


after  I  have  seen  him,  I  am  going  into  the 
village." 

"But,  Ian,  I  think  that  shot  was  meant  for  you — 
it  would  be  folly  for  you  to  go  to-night— 

"If  it  was  meant  for  me,  how  did — "  he  hesi 
tated  at  Gaunt's  name.  "How  did  your  cousin — 
stop  it?" 

"Because  he  was  with  me — he  protected  me — " 

Mclvor's  hand  clenched.    He  interrupted  Viola. 

"I'm  going  at  any  rate.  But  you,  Viola,  go  to 
your  room  and  rest." 

The  effort  that  Mclvor  made  to  control  himself 
seemed  to  send  the  blood  racing  to  his  heart, 
seemed  to  turn  him,  for  the  moment,  into  an 
automaton.  But  as  he  went  in  to  Lady  Adela,  he 
felt  that  it  would  be  possible  to  speak  to  her. 

The  man  that  had  shot  at  Viola,  but  had 
wounded  Harold,  was  the  son  of  the  old  woman 
they  had  seen  in  the  little  church.  He  had  earned, 
when  the  quarries  were  operating,  twenty-five 
shillings  a  week,  working  in  a  gang  of  four — two  of 
the  men  quarrying  the  slate,  the  other  two 
splitting  and  dressing  it. 

His  name  was  David  Griffiths,  and  he  lived  in  a 
pink  circular  hut  built  in  the  Roman  period,  that 
Viola  had  thought  so  charming.  He  lived  with  his 
wife,  old  mother,  and  two  children.  There  was 
something  strange  about  the  children.  They  were 
never  seen  in  the  garden,  but  sometimes  when  their 
mother  had  gone  out  to  see  to  the  bees,  and  their 
grandmother  slept  over  the  peat  fire,  their  white, 

[160] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


unchildish  faces  might  be  seen  pressed  against  the 
double-framed  windows,  and  looking  out  of  the 
woven  diamond  lattice.  The  faces  would  sometimes 
weep  and  sometimes  laugh,  and  sometimes  stare, 
with  the  eyes  dull  and  their  lips  flaccid  and  drooling. 
These  strange  children  of  his  wrung  David 
Griffiths'  heart.  But  he  was  doing  well,  and  he  and 
his  wife  planned  to  save  money  that  they  might 
take  the  children  to  a  great  doctor  in  London. 

As  he  worked  in  Mclvor's  quarry,  classing  the 
red,  blue  and  green  slate  into  its  different  sizes  of 
queens,  duchesses,  countesses,  and  ladies,  he  would 
say  over  and  over  to  himself  the  speech  he  was 
going  to  make  the  doctor — tell  him  how  the  little 
ones  had  been  as  bright  and  pretty  as  you  please 
when  they  were  tiny,  but  how  they  hadn't  seemed 
to  come  along.  He  would  tell  the  doctor  every 
thing  about  them,  and  then,  surely- 
One  day,  when  he  was  making  these  plans — 
and  cutting  a  queen  that  didn't  come  up  to 
standard  down  to  be  a  duchess — something  very 
strange  happened  to  David.  On  looking  at  his 
hand,  instead  of  finding  the  slate  in  it,  he  saw  a 
pick.  Also,  instead  of  being  where  he  had  been,  he 
was  on  one  of  the  steps.  He  was  surrounded  by 
four  quarrymen — one  of  whom  was  looking  at  him 
with  fear  and  rage.  When  David  looked  at  him 
and  dropped  the  pick,  the  man  thrust  his  face 
forward,  swore  at  him,  and  then  moved  off.  The 
other  men  looked  at  David  curiously,  and  one  of 
them  asked  him: 

f  161! 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


"Why  did  you  want  to  do  for  him,  mate?"  and 
then  they  moved  away. 

David,  who  could  not  understand  it,  and  was 
conscious  of  a  pain  in  his  head,  went  back  to  work 
— and  his  plans  for  the  children.  t 

When  word  came  that  the  quarries  were  to  close, 
despair  came  upon  him.  There  was  no  fear  of 
actual  suffering — but  where  was  the  money  coming 
from  to  add  to  their  hoard  for  the  doctor? 

David  could  think  of  nothing  else,  until  he  began 
to  think  of  who  was  taking  his  money  away.  Then 
he  began  to  hate  Mclvor,  though  he  was  very  care 
ful  not  to  say  so.  But  he  got  a  pistol  from  Port 
Madoc,  and  carried  it.  And  he  began  to  haunt  the 
quarry  and  to  walk  on  the  moor.  Very  often  he 
would  sit  down  to  rest  and  find  himself  trans 
ported  as  if  by  magic  to  another  place.  Always 
after  such  an  occurrence,  he  would  feel  headache, 
malaise,  terrible  fatigue.  But  he  never  spoke  of  it 
to  anyone. 

After  he  had  shot  at  Viola,  Griffiths,  still  holding 
the  pistol,  had  wandered  across  the  moor  into  the 
quarry,  and  in  the  dense  fog,  traversed  in  safety 
each  terrace.  Then  he  had  taken  his  familiar  way 
to  "Ye  Labor  in  Vain  Inn,"  and  reaching  his  hand 
for  a  mug  of  beer,  became  conscious  of  the  pistol  he 
held,  and  of  the  oppression  of  physical  discomfort 
that  he  had  begun  to  dread. 

"Ye  Labor  in  Vain"  was  crowded.  Men  in  rough 
clothes  were  sitting  at  small  tables,  and  all  of  them 
were  drinking.  Occasionally,  a  fragment  of  song 

[162] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


would  be  heard,  or  a  loud  laugh,  but  on  the  whole, 
they  were  glum. 

David  Griffiths  had  been  always  looked  askance 
at.  The  peculiar  tragedy  of  his  domestic  life,  as 
well  as  his  obsession  of  saving,  put  Griffiths  away 
from  his  fellows,  who  were  imaginative  and  shy 
before  unusual  conditions. 

To-night  as  David  lurched  into  the  small,  dark 
room,  sat  down  at  a  table  and  took  his  beer,  Alan 
Jones,  a  splendid  young  man  who  had  attended  the 
Eisteddfod  the  year  before,  and  had  ever  since 
sung  parts  of  the  Goredd  Prayer  aloud — in  inspira 
tional  moments,  checked  the  familiar  words  on  his 
lips.  He  stared  through  the  blue  smoke  from  the 
men's  pipes  at  Griffiths'  face — and  then  at  the 
pistol  in  his  hand.  Then  he  nudged  his  com 
panion. 

"Look—" 

The  other  men  at  the  table  turned — stared. 

Griffiths  seemed  sunk  in  stupor — his  figure  was 
inert,  and  fallen  a  little  forward — he  breathed 
heavily.  As  the  men  watched  him,  his  hands  drew 
up,  knocking  the  mug  of  beer  to  the  floor.  His 
features  were  distorted — a  short  and  piercing  cry 
broke  from  his  lips,  and  he  fell  to  the  floor,  froth 
gathering  at  his  mouth. 

The  men  nearest  him  got  up,  gave  him  one  look, 
and  taking  their  mugs  with  them,  went  outside. 
No  one  made  any  attempt  to  aid  or  relieve 
Griffiths.  They  objected  to  his  presence,  and  so 
left  it. 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


Mclvor  had  found  it  possible  to  speak  to  Lady 
Adela.  As  Gaunt  had  been  conscious  of  her 
uncritical  mind  and  kind  heart,  so  was  Mclvor 
aware  of  it.  To  anyone  observant  of  the  moods  of 
others,  he  would  have  betrayed  himself,  for  the 
mastery  he  had  forced  upon  his  nature,  the  iron 
control  that  it  had  endured  while  he  was  with 
Viola,  was  leaving  him.  Curtly  he  told  Lady 
Adela  of  the  accident,  and  made  her  remain  with 
him,  until  word  should  come  from  the  doctor. 

Lady  Adela,  whose  face  had  been  rosy  and 
placid  in  the  light  from  the  great  candelabra,  grew 
quite  white.  She  started  to  her  feet  to  go  up 
stairs,  to  fly  to  her  boy.  Mclvor  stopped  her. 
His  voice  was  like  a  detaining  hand. 

"Don't.    Wait  with  me." 

Not  knowing  why  she  did  it,  Lady  Adela  obeyed 
him.  She  longed  to  be  away.  But  Mclvor  did 
not  talk  to  her. 

He  got  up  suddenly  and  extinguished  some  of  the 
candles,  then  strode  to  one  of  the  great  embrasures. 
As  he  put  back  the  curtain,  there  was  a  wild  dash 
of  rain  on  the  window.  Mclvor  stared  out.  In  the 
darkness  he  saw  Viola  leaning,  nearer — nearer — to 
Gaunt — lifting  his  head — meeting  his  lips. 

The  storm  that  had  sprung  up  suddenly,  and 
without  warning,  was  born  at  once  into  fury.  A 
wind  that  had  swept  across  leagues  of  ocean  gave 
out  a  great  diapason.  Mclvor  longed  to  be  out  in 
the  storm,  for  there  was  that  in  him  that  writhed 
in  restraint — that  cried  aloud  for  freedom. 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


Lady  Adela,  looking  at  his  tall  and  motionless 
figure  in  the  quiet  room,  felt  reassured.  Surely,  he 
would  not  be  so  composed  if  there  was  much 
danger. 

After  what  seemed  hours  to  her,  a  footman  came 
in  softly  and  announced  the  doctor. 

Mclvor  turned  on  his  heel. 

The  doctor  was  old  and  tired,  and  accustomed  to 
terrible  things,  that  made  the  wound  Gaunt  had 
received,  seem  a  mere  scratch.  Of  course  the 
young  man  must  be  careful — rest  in  bed — proper 
bandaging  and  diet.  The  serious  thing,  in  the 
doctor's  opinion,  was  that  an  attempt  had  been 
made  on  a  life.  As  he  spoke  to  Mclvor,  he  had  a 
feeling  of  keen  anxiety  to  know  how  this  land 
owner  would  act,  in  this  case. 

"Did  you  see  anything  of  the  fellow?"  he 
questioned. 

"No."    Mclvor  moved  towards  the  hall. 

"But  I  mean  to  see  him.  I'm  going  into  the 
village  now— 

"Let  me  urge  you  not  to.  It  would  be  quite 
unsafe,  under  the  circumstances — and  there  is  a 
big  fellow  of  a  storm  on  its  way  to  us — " 

Mclvor  cut  him  short.  He  flung  himself  into  a 
heavy  coat,  pulled  a  cap  down  over  his  eyes,  and 
plunged  into  the  darkness.  It  seemed  to  open 
arms  to  receive  him;  the  wind  that  buffeted,  the 
rain  that  drenched  him,  the  rocks  over  which  he 
stumbled,  and  the  black  night  into  which  he 
plunged,  were  a  refuge.  In  it  he  was  still  tor- 

[165] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


merited,  but  he  was  capable  of  thought  that  urged 
him  to  decision.  His  pride,  like  something  fatally 
wounded  that  yet  has  strength  to  hide  itself  that  it 
may  die  alone,  demanded  that  he  should  keep  this 
suffering  secret. 

But  some  one  must  pay.  Some  one  from  the 
village  that  he  had  worked  and  hoped  for — that  he 
had  trusted  to  understand  him,  and  that  had 
struck  at  him.  There  he  could  strike  back. 

The  proprietor  of  "Ye  Labor  in  Vain"  had 
thrown  a  dishpan  of  water  over  Alan  Jones,  who, 
after  a  little,  sat  up  and  tried  in  a  dazed  way 
to  dry  himself.  The  proprietor  had  then  taken 
him  by  the  elbows,  and  with  an  admonition  to  "go 
home,"  put  him  outside,  and  signaled  to  his  other 
guests  to  come  back,  which  they  did,  with  height 
ened  spirits. 

Perhaps  the  diversion  of  poor  Griffiths'  fit,  or  the 
happy  comparison  of  their  healthy  lives  with  his 
diseased  one,  made  them  gay.  At  any  rate,  new 
beer  was  called  for,  and  young  Jones  was  demanded 
to  sing  what  he  could  remember  of  the  music  he  had 
heard  at  the  Eisteddfod. 

Alan  Jones,  stirred  temperamentally,  was  willing 
to  oblige.  Throwing  back  his  dark  head  and 
closing  his  eyes,  the  better  to  aid  his  memory,  he 
sent  these  words  out,  in  a  powerful  and  sweet,  if 
untrained  tenor: 
"  'Grant,  Oh  God,  thy  Protection 

And  in  Protection,  Strength; 

And  in  Strength,  Understanding; 

[166] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


And  in  Understanding,  Knowledge; 

And  in  Knowledge,  the  Knowledge  of  Justice; 

And  in  the  Knowledge  of  Justice,  the  love  of  it; 

And  in  that  love,  the  love  of  all  Existence; 

And  in  the  love  of  all  Existence,  the  love  of  God, 
and  all  Goodness.'  * 

Mclvor  strode  in  while  the  Goredd  Prayer  was 
being  sung.  But  he  waited  in  shadow,  until  it 
was  finished. 

Jones,  evidently  proud  of  his  powers,  repeated 
the  last  line: 

"  'And  in  the  love  of  all  Existence,  the  love  of 
God,  and  all  Goodness/  ' 


CHAPTER  XIX 

When  Gaunt  woke  in  the  morning,  his  room  was 
full  of  sunshine.  His  first  sensation  was  that 
electric  lights  were  burning  very  near  his  face,  and 
that  only  by  withdrawing  his  head  under  the 
covers  could  he  escape  their  glare.  Which  act  he 
tried  to  perform,  but  as  he  moved  such  sharp 
pain  flashed  through  his  shoulder  and  died  throb 
bing  in  his  hand,  that  he  lay  very  still. 

When  he  did  that,  events  came  back  to  him — 
not  in  orderly  sequence,  but  turning  as  round 
abouts  do  on  which  sit  flying  figures  of  youth  that 
revolve  about  a  central  and  musical  support. 
Viola  was  the  central  figure  in  his  thought.  He 
had  made  an  ass  of  himself — but — she  had  kissed 
him.  A  smile  drew  up  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 
He  murmured  her  name  to  the  pillow. 

"Little  Viola— little  Viola!" 

Leone,  who  had  been  sitting  by  Gaunt's  bed, 
slipped  out  of  the  room,  when  she  saw  that  he  was 
awake,  to  tell  Viola — but  her  mistress  was  not  in 
the  tower  room  nor  in  any  of  the  drawing  rooms. 

Still  searching  Leone  found  Mclvor's  man  Tay, 
and  from  him  received  the  information  that  Mrs. 
Mclvor  had  waited  in  her  husband's  dressing  room 
all  night,  and  that  the  "master"  had  not  yet 
returned  from  the  village.  Men  had  been  sent  to 

M681 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


Glas  Ogven  only  this  morning,  to  relieve  Mrs. 
Mclvor's  anxiety. 

As  Leone  listened,  she  looked  puzzled — her  step 
slackened,  but  a  recollection  of  Gaunt's  beaux 
yeux  prodded  her  on.  And  she  found  Viola,  in  a 
dark  morning  gown,  walking  up  and  down  in 
Mclvor's  study. 

"Madame!    M'sieur  is  awake!" 

Viola  turned  swiftly.  A  look  of  intense  relief 
passed  over  her  face. 

"He  has  come  back,  Leone?    Where  is  he?" 

"But  M'sieur  Gaunt,  Madame!  He  is  asking 
for  you." 

Viola's  expression  of  joy  faded.  Leone,  watching 
her,  murmured,  with  a  baffled  accent: 

"C'est  Anglais!"  and  departed. 

And  Viola  continued  her  pacing  back  and  forth 
of  the  little  room,  and  her  thoughts  their  weary 
repetition  of  uncertainty. 

Last  night  Ian  had  been  different.  Viola  had 
felt  intuitively  that  Mclvor,  in  his  apparent  dis 
regard,  was  in  reality  more  intent  upon  her  than 
he  had  ever  been.  And  the  hope  that  she  was  for 
once  first  in  his  thoughts  made  Viola  rejoice. 

But  he  had  been  very  strange — and  he  had  gone, 
in  spite  of  and  as  though  he  had  not  heard  her 
entreaties,  into  the  village — into  danger — and  he 
had  not  come  back. 

It  seemed  to  Viola  as  though  she  were  in  some 
nightmare  land,  enfolded  in  such  fog  as  had 
encompassed  them  last  night,  and  through  which 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


she  now  vainly  tried  to  see.  Leone's  interruption, 
with  word  from  Gaunt,  made  her  think  of  him  for  a 
moment,  with  warm  pity  and  gratitude,  but  she 
turned  from  the  remembrance  of  his  face,  to 
pursue,  in  thought,  the  mysterious  aloofness  of 
Mclvor's,  that  seemed  for  a  moment  to  look  at  her 
with  understanding,  only  to  evade,  to  leave  her 
in  ignorance. 

There  was  a  soft  tap  at  the  door,  and  Lady 
Adela,  dressed  in  "something  warm"  in  tone,  as 
well  as  in  texture,  answered  Viola's  "Come  in." 

Lady  Adela's  hair  seemed  in  some  remarkable 
way  to  express  the  state  of  her  being.  To-day,  its 
gray  locks,  though  gathered  in  a  small  knot  on  the 
top  of  her  head,  defied  restraint,  and  stood  up 
around  her  face  in  quivering  strands.  She  was 
full  of  soft  emotion  and  thankfulness  that  her  boy 
was  safe. 

"Dear  Viola,  do  come — now,  and  see 
Harold." 

At  sight  of  her  aunt's  evident  agitation  of  happi 
ness,  Viola  was  ashamed  that  she  herself  had  taken 
so  slight  a  part  in  the  general  rejoicing  that  Harold 
had  come  off  so  easily.  As  she  remembered  how  he 
got  his  hurt,  her  pale  cheeks  flushed.  She  took 
her  aunt's  hand  eagerly. 

"Of  course!  I'm  so  anxious  to  see  him — he 
really  saved  my  life,  you  know,  Aunt  Adela." 

Harold  was  raised  a  little  in  the  bed,  but  his 
bandaged  arm  and  shoulder  were  covered.  The 
sheet  was  drawn  up  to  his  chin;  over  it  and  against 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


the  white  pillow,  his  face  and  bright  brown  hair 
looked  full  of  vitality.  The  bistre  circles  of  pain 
under  his  eyes  only  made  their  blue  gaze,  as  they 
sought  Viola's  face,  more  ardent. 

Moving  quietly,  Viola  drew  a  chair  near  the 
bed  and  sat  down.  A  curious  constraint  came  upon 
her.  All  the  sympathy  and  real  gratitude  she  felt 
for  Gaunt  were  checked — arrested  by  the  way  he 
looked  at  her.  As  he  did  that  she  could  only  think 
of  one  thing.  She  had  kissed  him.  He  had  not 
forced  her — done  it  against  her  will.  She  had  bent 
down — put  her  lips  to  his. 

It  had  meant  so  little  to  her  that  she  had  not 
thought  of  it  until  now.  She  remembered  her 
impulse  of  tenderness  towards  him — that  had 
surely  something  of  the  maternal  in  it,  and  that 
some  women  feel  for  man  when  he  is  shorn  of  his 
powers  and  made  dependent  upon  them. 

As  she  looked  at  this  young  and  strong  man, 
whose  eyes  summoned  her,  Viola  felt  that  she  had 
betrayed  herself  to  an  enemy. 

But  the  enemy  was  smiling.  He  put  out  his 
uninjured  hand  and  took  hers — took  it  with  a 
strong  clasp. 

"How  good  of  you  to  come — but  you  are  all 
goodness  to  me." 

Viola  tried  to  free  her  hand.  Gaunt  put  it  to  his 
lips — kissed  it,  and  let  it  go.  His  voice  sounded 
warm  with  happiness. 

It  seemed  to  Viola  that  he  was  in  the  warmth, 
in  some  glorious  country  of  the  south,  where 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 

"the  sun  with  a  golden  mouth  can  blow 
Blue    bubbles    of   grapes    down    a   vineyard 

row." 

while  she  dwelt  alone,  in  this  bitter  north.  Viola 
did  not  know  how  to  answer  him.  She  felt  that 
she  did  not  know  anything — that  life  was  too  much 
for  her.  With  a  great  effort  she  conquered  her 
dumb  devil. 

"You're  not  badly  hurt,  Harold?" 
"No,  Viola — it's  the  merest  scratch — " 
"Do  you  remember — ?"    Viola  paused. 
"I    remember   last   night — and — always   will — 
that  and  the  first  time  I  saw  you.    Don't  ask  me 
to  forget,  Viola — don't  ask  it— 

As  Viola  listened  to  his  voice  that  was  full  of 
ardour  sprung  from  his  love  of  her,  she  felt  utter 
astonishment  at  her  action  on  the  moor. 

Gaunt  went  on  speaking.  His  voice,  hurried, 
husky,  would  not  have  been  recognized  by  Mrs. 
Lathrop,  but  the  language  that  he  spoke  she  would 
have  quite  understood.  To  Viola,  it  was  a  strange 
tongue.  She  felt  his  emotion,  his  distress,  sym 
pathetically,  and  would  have  been  glad,  if  she 
could,  to  have  soothed  it.  From  his  halting  but 
oddly  violent  words,  she  glimpsed  as  through  a 
murky  atmosphere  the  debatable  lands  of  love  that 
he  longed  to  explore  with  her  as  his  companion. 
That  Gaunt  hoped  to  do  so  did  not  occur  to  her 
any  more  than  did  a  feeling  of  offense  at  his  out 
burst.  She  was  as  oddly  unconscious  of  evil  in 
Harold  as  she  was  of  purity  in  herself. 

[172] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


Gaunt  saw  that,  and  his  manhood  almost 
worshipped  Viola — and  the  fiery,  shamed  hope 
that  he  had  felt,  died. 

"You  look  sorry  for  me —  "  he  almost   faltered. 

Viola  stood  up  and  moved  away  to  the 
window. 

"I  am  sorry,  Harold — and  for  myself,  too.  I'm 
selfish.  Perhaps  that's  why — I've  missed  the  only 
thing  that  matters,  the  only  thing  that  can  make 
life  real,  or  beautiful.  It's  not  enough  to  love- 
that  may  be  like  a  gift  to  one  that  has  too  much; 
and  it's  not  enough  to  be  loved— that  may  be  like 
stealing — it  must  come  to  both,  alike,  and  I  think, 
dear  Harold,  it  hardly  ever  does." 

"I  know  one  thing,  Viola,  I'd  rather  give  my 
gift — my  love — to  you — than  have  any  made  to 
me.  I'm  going  away — but  you'll  remember  that, 
won't  you  ?  You'll  promise  me  that,  if  there's  ever 
a  chance — you'll  let  me  do  something,  anything 
for  you?" 

There  was  nothing  in  Harold's  words  now  that 
Mrs.  Lathrop  had  ever  heard  or  could  even 
imagine.  Viola  did  not  realize  the  change — she 
only  knew  that  she  felt  terribly  lonely  again,  and 
very  sad.  And  sad  not  only  for  herself. 

"If  there's  ever  anything,  Harold,  that  you  can 
do,  I  promise." 

But  surely  there  never  would  be.  Desires  of 
high  romance,  Viola  thought  of  Harold's  with  her 
own,  might  hang  their  splendid  colors  in  the  dim 
halls  of  imagination,  but  at  the  touch  of  reality 

[173] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


they  would  vanish  away  into  the  "stuff  that 
dreams  are  made  of." 

When  Viola  stepped  into  the  corridor  and  long 
hall  that  led  to  Mclvor's  rooms,  she  was  conscious 
at  once  of  movement — excitement,  in  the  house. 
But  she  did  not  make  any  effort  to  discover  what 
it  was,  or  whether  Mclvor  had  come  home. 
Instead,  she  sought  the  little  tower  room  whose 
windows,  after  the  storm,  showed  a  delicately  blue 
and  veiled  expanse  of  sea  and  sky.  Viola  slipped 
on  a  white  dressing  gown,  and  moved  a  chair  as 
near  as  she  could  to  the  windows,  and  let  her  gaze 
wander  out  from  her  eyrie  into  the  far  horizon, 
deliberately  withdrawing  herself  from  the  activities 
she  had  been  aware  of  in  the  house. 

An  emphatic  knock  and  the  hurried  entrance, 
after  Viola's  rather  languid  "Come  in,"  of  Pamela, 
brought  another  atmosphere  into  the  room.  Pam 
was  neatly,  almost  severely,  dressed  in  dark  blue 
serge.  Her  hair  was  drawn  back  from  her  forehead 
and  fastened  in  a  resentful-looking  knot  at  the 
back  of  her  head.  Her  eyes,  with  their  thin  lids 
traced  by  tiny  veins,  looked  hot  and  dry,  as  though 
they  burned — and  her  ruddy  cheeks  were 
heightened  oddly  in  color. 

She  cleared  her  throat,  making  a  queer  little 
sound  before  she  spoke. 

"I've  looked  everywhere,  Vi!" 

Viola  withdrew  her  eyes  from  the  cloudy 
spaces. 

"For  what,  Pam?" 

[174] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


"For  you,  of  course.  I  only  wondered  that  you 
didn't  hear  us,  and  come  down  into  the  hall." 

"Us?" 

Viola  rose,  stepped  nearer  her  cousin.  A  tiny 
pulse  began  to  beat  in  her  throat. 

"Ian  is  here — has  come  home?" 

Pam,  whose  eyes  did  not  meet  Viola's  shook  her 
head. 

"No.  It  was  a  man  from  the  village,  with  news 
— for  you — for  all  of  us.  There's  war." 

She  spoke  as  though  it  were  not  of  real  im 
portance — as  though  she  mentioned  it  to  gain  time 
for  something  else.  Her  voice  was  almost  dull. 

"It's  nothing  much,  I  think.  But  the  villagers 
will  be  settled  out  of  hand,  and  that's  as  well, 
too." 

Viola  steadied  herself  by  taking  Pamela's  arm. 
The  arm  was  yielded  to  her  as  a  crutch  might  have 
been — to  give  physical  support.  It  did  not  com 
promise  Pamela  with  any  human  attributes  of 
sympathy. 

"What  do  you  mean,  Pam?  War — with  whom? 
and  how  will  it  settle  the  villagers — and  where — is 
—is  Ian?" 

Pamela  looked  away. 

"He's  gone — his  things  are  to  be  sent  on.  I  was 
to  tell  you — he  sent  me  this  note."  Pamela 
fumbled  with  a  single  sheet  of  paper  that  she  had 
thrust  into  her  gown.  But  she  did  not  refer  to  it. 

"Ian  belongs,  you  know,  to  the  Royal  Engineers 
— and  he  wanted  to  go  at  once,  naturally,  it  was 

[175] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY* 


right  for  him.    They  heard  the  news  in  the  village 
last  night — and  so,  of  course,  he's  gone." 

"Of  course — he's  gone." 

Viola  repeated  the  little  words  with  her  lips; 
and  Pamela,  feeling  as  though  she  had  struck 
at  a  guilty  person  only  to  find  them  innocent, 
went  out. 

Viola  had  loved  thoughts,  visions,  ideals  of 
beauty  and  romance.  She  had  applied  them 
unconsciously  to  every  act  of  her  life — she  had 
followed  them,  blindly,  but  only  in  their  flower. 
From  the  roots  of  fact  that  must  be  tended  and 
watered  with  tears — from  the  stalks  of  daily  life, 
that  must  push  up  through  earth  before  they  may 
bear  a  perfect  bloom,  she  had  looked  away. 

She  had  disliked  common  things,  ordinary 
people.  The  knowledge  of  her  parents'  tragedy 
had  crowned  them  for  her,  with  the  triumph  of  life. 

And  how  was  it  now  with  her  own  marriage? 
Always,  she  had  seen  love  as  a  star- — and  Ian — 
had  he  not  seen  the  star  first  as  a  world  teeming 
with  human  lives? 

Perhaps,  he  had  the  nearer  vision,  but  it  shut 
Viola  away.  The  villagers,  their  needs  and  hopes, 
and  the  voice  of  the  poor,  Ian  had  heard.  It  had 
followed  him  into  the  south — it  had  been  with  him 
in  the  north — it  led  him  now  into  a  strange 
country.  And  always  the  voice  of  the  many  was 
stronger  than  the  voice  of  one — the  cry  of  the 
wretched  more  poignant  than  the  love  whisper  of 
one  woman. 

[176] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


Ian  need  not  have  searched  far,  Viola  thought; 
he  could  have  found  at  home  a  poverty  to  enrich— 
a  life  to  lift  up — a  heart  to  make  glad. 


177] 


CHAPTER  XX 

Lady  Mordaunt  and  Pamela  made  Harold's 
departure  the  next  week  the  excuse  for  their  own. 
And  Viola  saw  them  go  with  relief.  From  London 
they  sent  her  news,  in  its  then  incipiency,  of  the 
Great  War,  and  Viola,  alone  in  her  walled  retreat, 
read  it  as  something  only  vaguely  sinister. 

The  lamentations  of  Leone  at  their  isolation,  the 
depressing  society  of  the  Reverend  Macready  who 
had  adopted  as  an  idee  fixe  the  outrage  of  dis- 
endowment,  were  far  more  real  to  Viola  than  any 
anxiety  about  England's  action  and  Mclvor  and 
Harold  Gaunt's  part  in  it. 

A  short  note  had  come  from  Ian,  after  six  weeks, 
from  a  "Military  Works"  bungalow  in  Chakrata, 
India.  It  was  a  very  curious  note,  indeed.  When 
Viola  took  the  square  blue  envelope,  with  her  name 
on  it  in  a  firm  and  abrupt  handwriting,  the 
emotion  that  she  felt  angered,  astonished  her,  and 
she  slipped  the  letter  unopened  into  a  book  of 
Mrs.  Browning's  poems,  and  forced  herself  to 
wait  until  the  next  day  before  reading  it. 

The  few  lines  contained  a  curt  apology,  but  no 
explanation,  for  leaving  Trevwithin  without  seeing 
her.  He  urged  Viola  to  feel  perfectly  free  to  go  or 
come  as  she  chose — inclosed  a  generous  check,  and 
concluded  briefly,  after  a  sentence  appreciative  of 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


the  Himalayas,  with  the  remark,  that  the  war 
would  probably  be  over,  and  he  at  home,  in  three 
months  at  most. 

Viola,  searching  through  the  non-committal 
words  for  a  trace  of  feeling,  put  the  letter  back, 
between  the  pages  of  "Sonnets  from  the 
Portuguese." 

Mclvor's  name,  signed  "Yours — Ian,"  touched 
the  words, 
"My  letters  all  dead  paper — mute  and  white! — 

And  yet  they  seem  alive  and  quivering 

Against  my  tremulous  hands  which  loose  the 

string— 
And  Viola's  hands  had  trembled. 

In  London,  Evelyn  Malloring,  in  an  access  of 
energy,  looked  up — and  investigated — the  "de 
jected  married  person"  that  had  pursued  Harold 
Gaunt  with  such  extraordinary  if  unfortunate 
ardour. 

Mrs.  Lathrop  was  installed  in  somewhat  sultry 
grandeur  at  the  Ritz,  and  there  Lady  Malloring's 
always  acquisitive  interest  had  fastened  upon  her. 

Mrs.  Lathrop's  blond  head,  crowned  with  a 
flamboyant  hat,  was  turned  with  deference  to  a 
very  young  man  that  Sir  John  and  Lady  Malloring 
knew  quite  well.  The  young  man  first  looked 
devilish,  then  conscious,  and  at  Sir  John's  reluctant 
approach,  miserable.  He  and  Malloring  exchanged 
a  few  words,  when  Lady  Evelyn  bore  down  upon 
the  group,  put  a  proprietary  hand  on  Sir  John's 
sleeve,  and  made  a  complete  if  somewhat  hurried 

[179] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 

inventory  of  Mrs.  Lathrop,  under  which  that 
lady  became  red  and  restive— and  Sir  John, 
acutely  uncomfortable,  drew  his  wife  away. 

"I  knew  it,"  said  Lady  Evelyn.  "That  gossip 
is  every  word  of  it  true.  The  creature's  got  no 
looks—no  pride— no  anything— She's  soft,  soft— 
and  sticky — she's  like  mush — poor  young  man. 
Fancy  a  diet  of  mush — old  mush!" 
"My  dear!" 

Sir  John,  seeing  Mme.  du  Guenic,  approached 
her  with  relief,  cast  Lady  Evelyn  upon  her  hands, 
and  made  a  discreet  retreat.  His  wife's  remarks 
sometimes  made  a  disturbing  commotion  in  the 
little  shrine  he  had  set  up  in  his  heart  for  her 
worship. 

Mme.    du    Guenic,    suppressing   her    boredom, 
smiled  kindly  at  Lady  Evelyn. 
"I  like  your  husband,"  she  said. 
"What,  Johnny?" 

Lady  Evelyn's  eyebrows  performed  half  circles 
of  astonishment. 

The  elder  woman  smiled. 

"Are  you  astonished  at  my  perception  of — the 
grande  passion?" 

Lady  Malloring  gasped,  "you  don't  mean — " 
"I  do  mean — that  it  is  refreshing — to  see  a  man 
that  loves  his  wife — as  Sir  John  does  you.    Forgive 
my  eccentric  speech.     I  am  alone — you  know — " 
Her  companion   broke  in  hurriedly.     She  was 
always  uncomfortable  out  of  the  shallows. 
"Why  don't  you  take  a  trip?" 

[180] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


Mme.  du  Guenic  started — gave  a  half  laugh. 

"I  believe  you  are  really  divinatory!  I'm  going 
to,  if  I  can  persuade  my  niece,  Viola,  to  go  with 
me." 

"How  fascinating!  Of  course  she'll  go.  She 
can't  stay  alone  on  that  rock  in  Wales — and  Mr. 
Mclvor's  gone  to  India,  I  heard."  A  look  of 
malice  crossed  her  pretty  face. 

"Perhaps  you,  Mrs.  Mclvor,  and  Mrs.  Lathrop 
will  go  out  on  the  same  steamer — poor  Gaunt  is 
back  in  Kairpur — and  I  believe  the  creature, 
balked  of  her  prey,  will  pursue  it— 

Madame  du  Guenic  laughed.  "We  are  all  God's 
creatures,"  she  said,  and  added  without  profanity, 
"and  His  works  are  indeed  wonderful." 

Lady  Adela  and  Pam,  who  were  stopping  for  a 
few  weeks  at  the  Ritz,  had  a  letter  from  Viola  that 
told  of  her  acceptance  of  Mme.  du  Guenic's  invita 
tion.  Viola  did  not  give  her  real  reason  for  this 
journey.  In  fact,  she  denied  it  to  herself,  pretend 
ing  that  indifference  to  her  husband  would  allow 
her  to  go  near,  without  seeing  him.  And  Trev- 
within  was  impossible.  The  loneliness  of  the  sea- 
haunted  rooms,  the  silent  sky,  the  eerie  beauty  of 
the  strange  and  almost  violent  mountain  country, 
was  terrible  to  Viola.  And  once  again,  from  love, 
she  turned  to  her  mother's  sister. 

Pamela,  when  she  finished  the  note  that  she  had 
read  aloud  to  her  mother,  stood  up,  extracted  a 
handkerchief  that  she  had  purchased  at  a  benefit 
bazar,  and  that  was  extremely  stiff,  from  her  dress 

fiSil 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


and  blew  her  nose.  The  action,  accomplished  with 
force  and  thoroughness,  rendered  her  principle 
feature  more  prominent  than  usual.  It  caught 
Lady  Adela's  sad  and  wandering  eye,  and  fixed  her 
gaze. 

Pamela,  watching  her  mother  was  seized  by  a 
longing  foreign  surely  to  her  Britannic  nature,  to 
astonish  Lady  Adela  with  words  like  these: 

"If  I  didn't  have  such  a  nose,  such  a  face,  I 
would  be  going  to  India  to  Harold!  It's  not  worth, 
it's  not  love,  that  counts  for  men — it's  looks, 
faces,  noses!" 

But  she  did  not  do  that.  She  remarked  some 
what  at  length  upon  the  pleasure  Viola  would 
undoubtedly  enjoy  on  this  trip.  But  Lady  Adela 
did  not  at  once  agree  with  her. 

"I've  a  queer  guilty  feeling  about  Viola,  Pam. 
You  know,  she  left  us  before  with  her  aunt,  and 
of  course  her  marriage  would  naturally  change  her, 
but  she's  never  seemed  the  same  child  to  me.  She 
used  to  be  a  happy  thing;  do  you  remember  how 
Harold — "  Lady  Adela  checked  herself,  but 
Pamela  said,  in  an  even  voice: 

"How  Harold  and  she  used  to  ride  together  that 
summer  before  she  went  away!  And  how  she  used 
to  sing  to  him!  Yes,  I  do  remember  it." 

But  Lady  Adela  still  looked  troubled. 
"I've  always  felt  guilty  about  her  being  married 
away  from  us — it's  as  though  I  had  shirked  my 
responsibility — and    somehow,    this    going    away 
again — 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


She  broke  off  to  continue  curiously,  "But  she 
may  join  Ian,  and  I  think  that  they  are  happy, 
don't  you,  Pam?" 

Her  voice  begged  for  an  affirmative.  But 
Pamela  did  not  give  it,  exactly. 

"I  think  Ian  is  deeply  in  love  with  Viola,  as  all 
the  men  she  ever  knew,  are." 

Lady  Adela's  sense  of  the  proprieties  revolted. 

"Pam!— were." 

Pamela  went  close  to  her  mother  and  looked 
into  her  eyes. 

"No,"  she  said,  "are — are  in  love  with  her." 

"Well,  she  is  happy  with  Ian,  Pam?" 

But  this  time  Pamela  did  not  answer  her  mother 
at  all,  but  went  to  her  own  room  and  closed  the 
door.  Walking  to  the  bed  with  furtive  steps, 
Pamela  flung  herself  face  down  upon  it,  caught 
with  her  hands  at  the  pink  and  blue  roses  carved 
on  the  head  of  the  bed,  bit  her  pale  lips  through 
which  sobs  forced  their  way,  hid  her  eyes  in  a 
pillow,  and  drenched  it  with  bitter  tears. 

While  her  body  shook  in  a  storm  of  emotion, 
Pamela's  mind  struggled  with  a  foe.  Curiously 
enough,  it  was  not  her  love  for  Harold  that  she 
longed  most  to  be  rid  of,  but  a  feeling  toward 
Viola,  of  such  power  that  it  frightened  her.  It  was 
so  intense  at  times,  that  if  she  could  not  be  alone, 
could  not  give  way  physically  to  the  anguish 
of  jealousy  and  hurt  love  that  racked  her,  Pamela 
felt  that  she  might  do  any  mad  thing  that  would 
hurt,  even  wrong  Viola,  that  would  make  her 

[183] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


suffer  a  little  perhaps  as  she  herself  suffered.  But 
Pamela  did  not  want  to  give  way,  did  not  want  to 
be  mastered  by  the  force  of  her  passion.  She 
fought  with  anguish  to  subdue  it. 

To  have  an  infinite  capacity  of  devotion  to 
another — to  smother,  deny,  refute  it — to  have  that 
capacity  change  by  a  hideous  alchemy  into  a  power 
of  hatred,  loathing,  jealousy  of  another,  a  woman 
like  herself — Pam  denied  that,  not  in  the  least  like 
herself,  but  a  woman  caught  in  the  waste  and 
cruelty  of  life,  no  less  if  differently  than  she — was 
to  know  oneself  outraged. 

As  she  lay  on  the  bed,  exhausted  but  calm  again, 
Pam  heard  her  mother  moving  about  and  speaking 
in  the  sitting-room.  Presently  Lady  Adela  tapped 
on  Pam's  door,  and  urged  her  in  a  voice  that 
sounded  happy  to  come  out  at  once — that  there 
was  a  surprise  waiting  for  her. 

Pam  got  up  slowly.  She  felt  a  little  faint;  her 
head  throbbed,  and  her  clothes  were  bunched  up, 
disordered,  and  her  face  was  swollen. 

When  she  came  into  the  sitting-room  ten  minutes 
later  Viola,  who  was  the  surprise,  thought  Pamela 
looked  sleepy,  as  though  she  had  been  suddenly 
wakened. 

"What  a  shame  to  get  you  up  —  I'm  sure 
you  were  in  the  midst  of  some  delightful  dream. 
One  is  always  waked  from  the  nice  ones, 
though— 

Viola  gave  an  apologetic  little  laugh.  Pamela 
did  seem  dazed  and  cross. 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


"I  came  almost  with  my  letter,  Aunt  Adela. 
Poor  Leone — how  she  worked  like  a  Fury  packing 
all  our  things  in  one  night!  Tante  Hortense  has 
our  passage  on  a  good  boat,  and  I  really  think  we 
will  have  a  pleasant  trip.  But  tell  me  about  your 
selves.  You're  well — and  happy,  dear?" 

"Oh,  we!"  Lady  Adela  threw  up  her  hands. 
"We're  comfortable  and  well  situated  here  for  our 
shopping,  which  Melon  told  me  we  had  to  do,  but 
we  are  not  exciting,  my  dear,  as  you  are,  so  tell  us 
your  plans." 

Since  Pamela  had  come  into  the  room,  Viola  had 
felt  a  restraint.  She  loved  to  talk  with  her  aunt — 
to  go  into  descriptions  of  her  frocks  that  Lady 
Adela  doted  on,  and  to  dwell  on  all  the  details  of 
her  life.  To  do  so  before  Pam,  however,  cost  her 
an  effort. 

Viola  was  dressed  in  a  close-fitting  tan  walking 
costume,  a  small  velvet  hat  covered  with  violets, 
and  some  very  beautiful  Russian  sables.  The  rich 
ness  of  the  fur  about  her  face  emphasized  its  deli 
cate  contour,  the  ivory  white  of  the  cheeks,  the 
red  droop  of  the  lips,  and  her  large  eyes  that  had 
always  held  a  look  of  sadness,  of  melancholy, 
seemed  to  Lady  Mordaunt  to  hold  an  added  wist- 
fulness  today.  Perhaps  the  knowledge  that  Viola 
was  going  on  what  seemed  to  Lady  Adela  a  long 
and  perilous  journey  influenced  her;  at  any  rate, 
Lady  Mordaunt  felt  her  love  and  tenderness  for 
Viola  increased,  as  some  one  who  has  been  always 

[185] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


dear  to  us,  becomes  infinitely  more  so  when  they 
are  going  from  us. 

At  any  rate,  Lady  Adela  insisted  on  making  a 
fuss  over  her  niece.  Tea,  and  very  special  cakes 
were  sent  up,  the  fire  was  lit,  and  the  curtains 
drawn  to  shut  out  the  dreary  autumn  afternoon. 

"Just  where  will  you  be,  my  dear?     Near  Ian?" 

"Oh  dear,  no,  Aunt — Ian  is  up  in  what  they  call 
'The  Snows'; it's  two  days'  journey  from  Kairpur, 
where  we  will  be." 

Pamela  put  her  hand  over  her  eyes.  Lady 
Adela  saw  the  motion  and  looked  about  for  a  fire 
screen. 

"Don't  bother,  Mater.  Kairpur  is  where  Harold 
is  stationed,  isn't  it,  Viola?" 

Viola  turned  eagerly  toward  Pam.  It  was  the 
first  question  her  cousin  had  asked. 

"Yes;  that's  what  makes  it  so  pleasant.  We 
won't  feel  so  lone  and  strayed — with  Harold.  And 
now,  dear  Aunt,  if  you  will  give  me  messages  for 
your  boy,  and  a  kiss  for  myself,  I  must  really  say 
goodby.  You  must  not  think  of  docks — Tante 
Hortense  can't  bear  to  be  seen  off,  and  they  sadden 
me — farewells  snatched  at  the  waters'  brink!" 

Lady  Adela  took  Viola  tenderly  in  her  arms, 
pressed  a  copy  of  "Blackwoods"  into  her  hand  for 
Dr.  Wimbish,  wept  a  little,  but  waved  a  gallant 
farewell. 

Pamela,  seeing  that  the  fire  needed  attention, 
gave  it  hers,  and  blacked  herself  so  she  could  not 
take  her  cousin's  hand,  or  even  kiss  her. 

[186] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


When  Viola  had  gone,  and  Lady  Mordaunt  was 
sitting  rather  sadly  and  looking  at  the  castles  for 
old  age  that  the  obliging  fire  made,  Pamela  went 
into  her  own  room,  locked  the  door,  seated  herself 
at  the  writing-desk  and  began  a  letter  to  Ian 
Mclvor. 


[is?] 


CHAPTER  XXI 

It  was  on  a  very  still  day  that  Viola  and  Mme. 
du  Guenic,  Mrs.  Lathrop  and  a  disgruntled  Globe 
trotting  man  who  traveled  to  write,  and  wrote  to 
live,  arrived  in  Kairpur. 

Mrs.  Lathrop,  who  had  through  the  facilities  of 
travel  and  the  coincidence  of  destination,  estab 
lished  a  certain  acquaintance  with  Mme.  du  Guenic 
and  Viola,  insisted  hospitably  on  opening  her  bung 
alow  to  them,  while  they  looked  about  at  leisure 
for  themselves.  Mrs.  Lathrop  had  not  given  the 
invitation  to  Mme.  du  Guenic,  but  chose  Viola  as 
the  medium.  And  Viola,  seeing  how  the  poor  thing 
flushed,  looked  eager  and  sensitive  too,  consented 
for  one  night  at  least,  and  asked  her  aunt  about  it 
later. 

Mme.  du  Guenic  was  amused,  and  though  she 
had  barely  seemed  aware  of  Mrs.  Lathrop's  exist 
ence,  she  made  no  protest  beyond  a  shrugged 
shoulder  and  a  murmur,  "Qu'esf  ce  que  c  est?" 

The  rains  are  due  about  the  middle  of  June.  It 
was  the  sixteenth  day  of  that  month  that  Mrs. 
Lathrop  opened  the  door  of  her  bungalow — that 
was  like  the  inside  of  a  limekiln — to  her  guests. 
After  they  had  refreshed  themselves  slightly  with 
cool  drinks  and  the  punkah  wallah,  which  Mrs. 
Lathrop  had  wired  to  a  friend  to  secure  for  her, 

[188] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


had  been  set  to  work,  she  took  them  gasping,  up  to 
the  roof. 

They  looked  out  over  a  mass  of  trees  of  curious 
and  beautiful  foliage,  amongst  whose  green,  bril 
liant  parrots  flashed,  and  bougainvillea  twined 
its  purple  flowers.  The  winding  of  the  jungle 
lane  could  be  seen  where  it  skirted  the  garden 
wall  that  was  painted  a  dull  yellow.  An  old  mal- 
lic  Brahmin  by  the  sign  of  the  sacred  string  over 
his  right  shoulder  and  under  his  left  arm,  sat  in 
the  shelter  of  the  wall  and  the  fern  fronds  that 
grew  out  of  it,  and  smoked  his  peaceful  hubble- 
bubble. 

Beyond  Mrs.  Lathrop's  compound  was  the  white 
gleam  of  a  marble  temple,  carved  with  strange  gods 
and  given  over  to  bats  and  desolation.  In  the 
west  that  seemed  so  near  that  you  could  put  your 
hand  on  it,  flamed  a  sky  like  a  conflagration. 

The  trees  of  the  jungle  spread  their  distorted 
branches,  that  looked  like  creatures  writhing  in 
distress,  against  this  background  that  was  the 
color  of  flame,  of  passion,  of  war,  and  blood.  In 
coming  to  the  East  Viola  had  hoped  to  find  peace, 
calm,  a  suspense  of  her  uncertainties.  The  place 
seemed  teeming  with  violence  from  the  parched 
earth  to  the  crimson  sky. 

"It  will  be  better  when  the  rains  come,"  Mrs. 
Lathrop  put  in  anxiously.  "At  least,  it  will  be 
different.  Everything  will  be  mouldy — the  plaster 
will  come  off  the  walls — the  pictures  will  curl  up 
and  drop  out  of  their  frames,  and  when  we  go  out 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


we  will  pay  for  a  boat,  but  be  content  with 
'brollies*  and  'goloshes/  However,  we  will  be 
cooler  and  can  have  parties." 

Mme.  du  Guenic  moved  away  from  her  hostess. 
"We'll  not  be  here  long,  you  know — as  soon  as  we 
have  seen  our  cousin — 

"Mr.  Gaunt?" 

The  tone  held  a  little  asperity — and  something 
else.  Mme.  du  Guenic  ignored  it.  Very  soon  she 
left  the  extraordinary  sunset  and  went  down  to  her 
cot  on  the  matting. 

Mrs.  Lathrop  detained  Viola,  when  she  would 
have  followed  her  aunt. 

"You  will  let  Harold  know  you  are  with  me, 
won't  you?" 

Viola  turned  in  surprise,  as  much  at  the  tone 
as  the  words.  Mrs.  Lathrop's  voice  sounded  as 
though  it  were  taking  off  its  clothes.  She  hurried 
on,  "Oh,  I  dare  say  you  don't  know  what  to  think 
of  my  calling  him  by  his  first  name.  But  I  want 
to  tell  you.  I  heard  something  in  London  that 
made  me  very  unhappy,  but  that  I  was  bound  to 
find  out  about.  It  was  about  You — and  Harold." 
Her  rather  small  blue  eyes  set  in  a  maze  of  fine 
lines  sought  Viola's  face. 

"When  your  husband  went  off  that  way — there 
was  talk,  you  know.  Hadn't  you  a  French  maid?" 

Viola,  her  face  burning,  tried  to  enter  the  house. 
Mrs.  Lathrop  put  two  hands  on  her  shoulders. 

"No — !  hear  me  out.  Oh,  I  know  what  I  am— 
and  I  don't  care  if  I  do  give  myself  away  to  you. 

[190] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


I'd  rather  do  that  than  not  know  the  truth — and 
he'll  never  tell  it  to  me." 

Her  lips  trembled.  The  whole  face  looked 
suddenly  years  older,  yet  animated  with  a  force  of 
determination,  of  will. 

"Do  you  care  about  him?  Oh,  tell  me — tell  me 
— I'd  have  no  chance  against  you — if  you  did:  but 
please  I  must  know." 

Viola. was  singularly  lacking  in  British  "pudeur." 
There  was  much  in  Mrs.  Lathrop  that  she  shrank 
from — that  her  delicacy  perceived  as  base  metal — 
but  aside  from  that,  and  the  fact  that  her  own 
reserves  were  being  outrageously  attacked,  a  wave 
of  sympathy  for  the  wretched  little  woman  kept 
her  where  she  was,  helped  her  to  say  "No," 
emphatically — clearly,  in  a  way  that  carried  con 
viction.  And  Mrs.  Lathrop  took  advantage  of 
Viola's  sympathy.  She  drew  her  down  into  a 
rattan  chair,  pulled  another  up  beside  it,  and  gave 
Viola  the  story  of  her  intrigue  with  Gaunt.  And 
she  naturally  gave  her  own  version. 

The  hot  breath  of  India  stirred  faintly  in  the 
deodars — the  red  light  faded  in  the  west,  and  a 
velvet  black  sky,  pierced  with  brilliant  stars,  was 
over  them  before  Mrs.  Lathrop  had  finished  her 
story.  Night  comes  swiftly  in  the  East — there 
is  only  a  moment's  pause  between  the  flaming 
day  and  the  ardent  night. 

Viola  felt,  as  she  listened  to  the  hurrying  voice, 
shamed — and  yet  in  a  way,  triumphant,  as  though 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


she  must  have,  in  some  way,  lost  her  own  identity, 
to  have  become  the  confidante  of  such  secrets. 

Mrs.  Lathrop  caught  Viola's  hand. 

"Feel !"  she  said.  "It's  over  my  heart.  You  can 
feel  how  my  heart  beats — just  to  speak  of  him — 
Don't  you  see,  I  can't  stand  it?  He  must  come  to 
me — he  must!" 

Viola  withdrew  her  hand.  She  felt  as  though  she 
had  touched  fire. 

"Have  you — told  him  you  are  here?" 

"I  wrote  from  London —  "  Mrs.  Lathrop  wailed, 
"weeks  before  I  left,  when  I  would  be  here.  He 
won't  answer — he  wants  it  to  end." 

Viola  stood  up.  "I'm  afraid  I  can't  help 
you." 

"Oh,  but  you  can!  He's  stationed,  you  know, 
only  a  few  miles  from  here  in  the  plains.  He's 
doing  special  work — there  are  only  a  few  men  with 
him,  I  think.  If  I  should  send  the  bearer  with  a 
note  he  would  tear  it  up — and  I  don't  dare  go 
myself—  '  her  hand  tightened  on  Viola's  arm. 
"But  you  are  his  cousin — he  would  listen  to  you!" 

"Tome!" 

"Yes — I  know  he  would.    He  cares  for  you — 

Gaunt's  face  rose  up  before  Viola — she  almost 
heard  him  saying,  "If  I  can  ever  do  anything  for 
you,  anything —  But  this!  How  could  she  do 
such  a  thing.  Gaunt  did  not  love — this  woman. 

"He  owes  it  to  me — to  see  me  once  more.  I've 
no  money — my  husband's  left  me — Ah,  you  will 


go — won  t  you?' 


[192 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


"Yes,"  breathed  Viola.  Then  she  went  quickly 
into  the  house. 

The  next  morning,  Mme.  du  Guenic,  who  main 
tained  she  had  not  closed  an  eye  all  night,  insisted 
on  moving  herself  and  her  niece  from  Mrs. 
Lathrop's  roof. 

It  is  a  very  simple  thing  to  find  accommodation 
— sheter,  servants  and  food — in  India  if  one  is 
attached  in  even  the  most  remote  way  to  the  Army. 

Mmle.  du  Guenic,  attired  in  white  linen,  hailed  a 
ticca  gharry,  and  set  forth,  with  Viola  masterfully, 
to  choose  a  home.  She  found  a  particularly  un 
healthy  if  exotic-looking  house,  with  its  back  to 
the  road,  and  chose  it  at  once,  probably  because  it 
was  painted  pink — and  was  in  every  way  a  decided 
contrast  to  Mrs.  Lathrop's  yellow  one.  She  also 
secured  an  excellent  bearer — who  was  charmed 
with  her  generous  and  incurious  manner  of  attend 
ing  to  business. 

After  a  very  fair  dinner  of  roasted  "moorghy," 
which  Mrs.  Lathrop  had  not  been  invited  to  share 
— to  Viola's  embarrassment — Madame  du  Guenic 
made  a  casual  remark.  She  was  in  evening  dress — 
and  looked  as  coijfe,  as  composed,  as  she  ever  had 
in  the  most  luxurious  setting. 

"Ian  is  coming  to  us  soon,  isn't  he,  Viola?  This 
is  all  very  well  as  a  curiosity,  but  the  heat,  cherie! 
and  that  astonishing  person!  By  the  way,  Ian 
went  very  unexpectedly — " 

"Yes,  Tante  Hortense."  Viola's  breath  came 
quickly. 

[193] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


"Jalouse^  ma  cherie?" 

With  one  of  her  rare,  but  very  winning  smiles, 
Mme.  du  Guenic  swept  Viola  into  her  arms.  Her 
brown  eyes,  which  were  usually  mocking,  looked 
suddenly  tender. 

"Write  to  him,  child,  tell  him  to  come.  He  loves 
you — and  he  thinks  you  played  with  him." 

"But  how?" 

"Le  beau  cousin!    Think.    Did  nothing  occur?" 

Viola  blushed  scarlet. 

"Ah — you  see!    Set  him  right. 

"Did  you  think  I  undertook  this  pilgrimage  for 
a  whim?  Any  more  than  you  thought  your  hus 
band  was  obliged  to  leave  without  a  word  to  you? 
I  had  it  from  the  excellent,  the  foolish  Aunt  Adela. 
I  have  waited  for  you  to  speak,  but  you  did  not. 
Ma  cherie ',  I  know  men.  The  cousin  is  bon  enfant — 
he  is  melodious — simpatica!  but  he  is  ephemeral! 

"Get  your  husband  back,my  child — he  is  a  man." 

"But  Tante  Hortense,  you  don't  understand. 
Ian  doesn't  love  me  at  all.  He  was  always  thinking 
of  the  villagers — and  yet  he  made  them  perfectly 
miserable  by  cutting  down  their  wages  when  he 
need  not  have  done  so.  He  thought  it  was  morally 
good  for  them." 

"Ah— I  see." 

"And  as  for  me — when  I  was  not  interested  in 
reforms — when  I  was  afraid  to  have — to  have  a 
child- 

"My  dear,  he  cared  for  the  villagers — and 
showed  it  by  making  himself  hateful  to  them. 

[194] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


"He  loved  his  wife — and  showed  it  by  making 
her  life  unhappy.  In  short,  he  thought  more  of  the 
life  of  your  souls,  than  of  anything  else.  He  seems 
neither  to  have  been  successful,  nor  understood." 

Viola  sprang  up.  "But  he  never  talked  to  me! 
He  chilled  me!  I  was  so  lonely,  so  frightened  in 
that  great  gloomy  place.  And  I  had  seen  a  woman 
die — so — horribly." 

"And  you,  did  you  ever  talk  to  him?  Did  you 
never  chill  him?  Listen,  Viola.  I'm  a  worldly 
woman.  I've  cared  for  very  little  in  my  life — 
I've  got  very  little  from  it.  But  all  that  I  have  had 
—that  matters  to  me  now — when  I  must  look  back 
upon  life — is  what  I've  had  from  love.  Not  from 
some  one's  loving  me — but  from  my  loving  them. 
And  I  mean  more  than  that — I  mean  loving  and 
being  loved,  completely,  in  every  sense,  by  my 
husband.  It's  what  matters  most — though  when 
I  had  it  I  did  not  realize  it — and  I  did  not  think  of 
it  for  you.  It's  in  your  reach,  little  Viola — write  to 
him." 

When  she  went  to  her  room,  Viola  sat  a  long 
time  over  a  note  she  directed  to  Ian.  She  felt  quite 
shy — quite  timid  about  it,  but  she  was  happier 
than  she  had  been  since  her  marriage. 

The  letter  did  not  reach  Mclvor — as  he  received 
Pamela's  on  the  evening  that  Viola  wrote  to  him. 


[195] 


CHAPTER  XXII 

To  Chamkrata  is  four  days*  journey  from 
Calcutta.  By  train  through  the  rice  country  of 
Behares,  where  miles  of  delicate  green  plants  seem 
like  the  flowers  of  the  water  they  stand  in,  beyond 
Mogulserai  with  its  flat  red  roofs,  its  Eastern 
mosques,  across  the  bridge  of  the  Ganges,  and 
beyond  Benares,  with  her  minarets  piercing  the 
blue,  past  Lucknow  and  her  memory  of  blood,  to 
Sahranpore.  From  there  by  dak-gharry,  ascending, 
gradually,  through  silvery  green  bamboo  and  wild 
white  balsam  that  grows  on  the  rocks,  to  Dehra, 
in  the  valley,  where  the  breath  of  the  great  snows 
falls  as  softly  on  her  roses  as  the  ring  dove's  note 
on  the  ears  of  those  who  love. 

Mclvor  had  taken  that  journey,  but  he  had  not 
seen  its  beauties.  From  Dehra  the  ascent  was 
made  on  muleback,  over  rocks  skirting  precipices, 
clinging  to  a  ragged  spur  of  the  great  brown 
mountain,  down  whose  side  roared  foaming 
torrents,  twisting  and  curving,  he  had  come  at  last 
into  a  great  white  silence. 

In  the  midst  of  it,  on  a  pinnacle  of  rock,  built 
over  a  sheer  depth,  was  the  isolated  Military 
Station,  the  bungalow  of  which  he  was  to  take 
possession. 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


When  Mclvor  had  heard  the  news  of  the  war  at 
"Ye  Labor  in  Vain/'  he  had  seized  upon  it  as  the 
means  of  a  personal  escape.  It  had  come  between 
him — and  violence.  The  rage  he  had  felt  against 
Harold  Gaunt  he  had  hoped  to  vent,  for  Viola's 
sake  and  his  own,  against  the  man  who  had  shot 
at  him  on  the  moor.  But  that  punishment  had 
been  taken  from  him — David  was  chastened  by 
a  heavier  Hand  than  his. 

Without  speaking  to  the  astonished  inn-keeper, 
Mclvor  had  written  a  few  lines  to  Pamela  and  his 
man  Tay,  and  had  then  flung  out  again  into  the 
storm.  All  night  he  walked  in  it,  and  in  the 
morning  started  for  London.  Every  mile  of  the 
journey  had  struck  at  him,  with  memories  of 
Viola. 

In  the  solitude  of  the  Himalayas  in  the  awful 
isolation  he  had  sought,  Mclvor  felt  himself  a  spot 
of  corruption  in  the  purity  of  the  snow.  But  he 
felt  also  that  all  mankind  was  that,  a  blot,  a  sin 
upon  the  beauty  of  the  world. 

His  duties  were  not  many,  but  they  had  to  be 
attended  to  regularly,  and  a  small  garden  that  held 
dahlias,  ox-eye  daisies,  and  curious  blood  red, 
single-petaled  flowers,  had  been  cared  for  by 
Mclvor's  predecessor,  so  that  Ian  felt  it  an  obliga 
tion  to  see  to  them.  And  when  he  was  busy  with 
his  strong,  skillful  hands,  he  did  not  think. 

There  were  days  when  he  would  wake  in  the 
morning  with  astonishment  at  the  stillness  about 
him,  with  amazement  at  himself,  as  he  realized 

[197] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


where  he  was.  He  would  be  able  to  feel  that  what 
he  had  seen  on  the  moor  had,  perhaps,  been  a  trick 
of  his  own  vision — had  no  real  meaning  in  it — was 
the  creature  of  his  own  mind.  Then  he  would  recall 
bit  by  bit  the  action  of  the  picture  that  had  never 
left  him  since  he  saw  it.  He  would  see  Gaunt's 
face;  then  his  own  hands  would  clench  in  a 
separate  life  of  their  own,  and  long  to  press  hard, 
cruelly,  until  the  breath  should  be  caught,  stifled, 
driven,  from  Gaunt's  body. 

All  thought  of  Glas  Ogven,  of  his  duties  towards 
the  villagers  that  had  been  for  years  the  subject  of 
his  earnest  and  beneficent  intentions  and  activities, 
had  gone  from  him,  as  though  his  brain  had  never 
held  it.  All  the  ideality  that  had  been  in  his  love 
for  Viola — all  images  of  her  as  his  spiritual  com 
panion,  as  the  mother  of  his  children,  the  mistress 
of  his  home — had  gone,  as  though  they  had  been 
drawn  upon  a  slate  and  a  hand  had  been  passed 
over  them. 

He  remembered  his  past  actions — his  attitude  of 
mind,  as  one  sane  would  regard  the  posturings  of  a 
mad  man.  He  had  let  his  wife,  his  wife  be  won 
from  him — in  his  own  home — by  a  man  she  had  not 
seen  more  than  twice  in  her  life.  And  Ian,  as  he 
thought  of  that,  as  he  remembered  his  preoccupa 
tion  with  the  morale  of  the  village,  felt  himself  to 
have  been  almost  idiot — less  than  man. 

The  native  postmaster,  with  mail  for  Chakrata, 
left  his  little  cart  with  the  gaily  tinkling  bells  far 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


down  on  the  comparatively  broad  slope  of  the 
brown  mountain,  and  progressed  once  a  week,  on  a 
lean  horse,  to  Mclvor's  bungalow.  On  the  day 
that  Viola  wrote  her  note  to  Ian,  Pamela's,  sent 
from  London,  reached  him. 

It  was  not  a  long  letter,  but  it  took  Mclvor  some 
time  to  read  it.  When  he  had  finished,  scenes  rose 
up  before  him. 

Viola  and  Gaunt  were  only  three  days'  journey 
from  him. 

And  they  were  together. 

There  was  also  an  official  notice  asking  him  to 
report  to  his  chief.  That  night  Mclvor  descended 
the  mountain. 


199] 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

Mrs.  Lathrop  was  not  at  any  time  easily  dis 
couraged,  and  her  shrewdness  had  divined  the 
weakness  of  pity  that  was  Viola's,  and  that  had 
been  awakened  on  her  behalf.  So  she  played 
upon  it.  Her  last  and  most  effective  appeal  was 
to  take  Viola  into  the  chintz-hung  bedroom  of  her 
bungalow  and  exhibit  a  wardrobe,  marked  by  the 
ravages  of  time. 

"What  can  I  do  with  it?"  she  had  asked,  turning 
her  blond  head  to  one  side,  and  holding  up  a  gown 
for  inspection.  The  gown  was  full  where  it  should 
have  been  scant — marked  indubitably  as  a  souve 
nir  of  a  past  decade. 

"It's  been  done  over  twice,  but  surely  something 
can  be  managed?"  Mrs.  Lathrop's  blue  eyes  had 
sought  Viola's  face  anxiously. 

"Since  my  husband  left  me  because  of  Harold,  I 
literally  haven't  a  penny,  you  know — so  I  shall 
have  to  be  as  clever  as  I  can  about  my  clothes. 
Do  you  mind  if  I  ask  your  advice  about  my 
things?" 

And  Viola  had  not  minded.  But  the  sight  of 
Mrs.  Lathrop's  painful  contriving,  in  the  face  of 
the  open  hostility  of  feminine  Kairpur,  the  absence 
of  her  lover,  and  her  apparent  lack  of  funds,  was 
too  much  for  Viola.  She  stood  up,  abruptly. 

[  200 1 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


"If  you  like— I'll  go— to  Harold.  Today— if  I 
can  find  a  guide.  He  must  do  something  for  you— 
he  can't  know." 

In  a  remarkably  short  time  Kali  Bagh — who 
still  preserved  a  beautiful  serenity — had  provided 
a  horse  and  a  slim  black  boy  of  the  Hindustani,  to 
act  as  guide. 

Mrs.  Lathrop's  gratitude  had  been  effusive. 
Viola  had  freed  herself  with  difficulty  from  an 
almost  violent  embrace,  to  make  arrangements  for 
her  journey.  The  distance  was  not  great,  and  by 
leaving  in  the  heat  it  would  be  possible  to  return 
by  nine  at  least. 

Viola  moved  about  in  her  curious  little  room, 
while  she  waited  for  the  guide.  It  was  very  still 
and  filled  with  a  peculiar  odor  that  the  intense  heat 
drew  out  into  the  room.  Brilliant  and  very  white 
sunlight  seemed  to  drip  through  the  closed 
shutters. 

Viola  dressed  carefully  in  a  white  linen  riding 
costume,  took  a  small  purse  that  was  well  filled, 
and  then,  impatient  of  waiting,  went  into  the  com 
pound.  A  cloud  of  dust  very  soon  announced  her 
escort.  All  Kairpur  was  sleeping  or  in  retreat  from 
the  sun.  No  one  saw  Viola  go.  She  was  taken  by 
the  road  that  led  through  trees  whose  foliage  was 
gray  with  dust,  to  the  plains. 

As  she  followed  her  guide,  Viola  was  at  first 
almost  overpowered  by  the  heat  of  the  sun,  and 
when  she  closed  her  eyes,  flashes  of  red  passed 
before  them.  She  felt  at  first  dazed — confused— 

[201] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


but  after  an  hour's  riding,  the  object  of  her  journey 
came,  sharply,  into  her  mind.  Viola  thought  of 
Harold,  as  she  had  last  seen  him — tried  to  recall 
the  sound  of  his  voice,  as  he  had  begged  her  to  ask 
"anything  of  him,  anything/'  But  her  thoughts 
were  kaleidoscopic — like  the  colors  that  passed 
before  her  eyes.  Images  of  Mclvor,  Harold,  Dora, 
Macready,  Pamela,  and  the  incidents  that  had 
joined  their  lives  to  her  own,  invaded  Viola's 
mind,  with  a  persistent  confusion.  She  remem 
bered  her  childhood  sensitized  by  imaginative  and 
ideal  dreams  of  her  mother. 

After  three  hours  going  by  a  devious  and  winding 
lane  that  passed  through  a  tangle  of  low  growing 
jungle,  the  green  and  rank  vegetation  vanished. 
Viola  and  her  guide  emerged  into  an  open  plain 
that  was  covered  with  gray  sand.  As  they  had  left 
the  jungle  behind  them,  so  too  had  they  left  the 
day.  It  was  as  though  a  hand  had  wiped  out  the 
light,  and  set  a  great  darkness  in  its  place.  A  wind 
had  sprung  up  that  was  cold  and  keen,  that 
belonged  to  the  night  and  whispered  of  the  vast 
spaces  it  had  traversed  in  its  mysterious  life.  It 
touched  Viola's  face  almost  as  living  fingers 
might,  and  its  touch  filled  her  with  fear,  woke  for 
the  first  time  what  was  almost  terror  in  her. 

The  guide  stopped  to  get  his  bearings,  then 
turned  his  horse  toward  the  north.  Against  the 
far  horizon,  an  aspiring  line  of  luminous  white 
marked  the  snows  of  the  Himalayas.  They  looked 
unearthly — like  immense  angelic  hosts  uniting  for 

[202] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


a  moment  the  earth  and  heavens.  As  Viola 
watched  a  crimson  moon  was  born  into  the  sky — 
and  the  plain  was  drenched  in  light.  And  her  fear 
grew. 

In  a  few  moments  the  camp  of  the  men  came  into 
sight — beyond  it,  and  situated  by  a  group  of 
ragged  palm  trees  and  a  well,  was  Harold  Gaunt's 
tent.  The  friend  of  Kali  Bagh  dismounted,  made 
certain,  and  then  pointed  a  slim  brown  hand. 

"Gaunt  Sahib." 

Viola  dismounted.  She  was  still  assailed  by  fear 
of  the  night  and  of  the  power  of  feeling  that  was 
moving  in  her,  but  which  she  did  not  understand. 

Beneath  the  tragic  light  of  the  moon,  the  white 
sands  stirred  as  a  leper  might  when  he  felt  that 
only  the  night  and  the  moon  could  look  upon  him. 
And  in  Viola  the  elemental,  real  and  terrible 
yearning  that  is  in  the  heart  of  every  woman,  that 
puts  out  hands  to  be  loved  and  protected  and 
understood  by  man,  stirred  with  new  life.  And 
with  it  anger  against  Mclvor,  and  shame  that  she 
had  felt  shame  for  her  love  of  him.  For  love  is 
truth  and  to  deny  it  is  to  deny  God. 

Moving  forward  swiftly  to  the  tent,  Viola  paused 
a  moment  under  the  rustling  leaves  of  the  palms 
that  moved  with  a  dry  and  arid  sound  like  the 
sound  made  by  the  lips  of  a  patient  who  is  parched 
with  fever  and  thirst.  And  it  seemed  to  Viola  that 
her  own  misery,  of  a  woman  who  was  starved  for 
love,  but  could  feel  love,  was  answered  and  multi 
plied  by  the  surrounding  mysteries  of  the  desert, 

[203] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


the  trees,  the  homeless,  wandering  wind,  which 
seemed  symbols  of  humanity:  hunger,  thirst,  and 
starvation  of  soul.  Understanding  of  herself,  of 
the  desolation  of  life  without  love,  flooded  Viola, 
as  the  moonlight  flooded  the  sand,  making  dark 
ness  visible. 

From  the  pool  of  bitter  water  came  the  thin  note 
of  some  wild  bird,  pausing  in  its  flight,  for  refresh 
ment,  returning  perhaps  to  its  nest  among  the 
reeds.  The  tiny  sound  heard  in  the  great  spaces 
and  uttered  with  the  authority  of  its  own  indi 
viduality,  seemed  to  Viola  infinitely  touching  and, 
in  a  way,  comforting.  The  bird  in  the  wilderness 
was  sustained  on  its  course  by  invisible  guides; 
should  not  the  soul  of  a  woman  caught  in  mis 
understanding  and  solitude  not  trust  and  rely  upon 
the  power  that  made  it,  to  sustain  it? 

Looking  down  into  the  pool  that  was  deep, 
unruffled,  with  a  dark,  glassy  surface,  Viola  saw 
the  stars  reflected  and  she  thought  of  how,  when 
one  looks  into  the  face  of  a  very  good  person,  one 
seems  to  see  there  in  their  eyes  the  reflection  of  the 
heaven  in  which  they  believe. 

With  a  quick  step,  Viola  went  to  the  tent, 
opened  the  flap  and  entered. 

It  was  late  when  Harold  Gaunt,  leaving  the 
camp  of  his  companions,  returned  on  foot  to  his 
own  isolated  tent.  As  he  walked  he  sang  in  his 
strong,  warm  voice,  "Some  talk  of  Alexander  and 
some  of  Hercules."  He  had  come  for  the  third 

[204] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


time  to  "But  the  ta-ra-ra-ra  of  the  British 
grenadiers/'  and  within  twenty  feet  of  the  tent 
before  he  looked  up  and  the  song  died  on  his  lips. 
The  side  of  the  tent  was  made,  by  a  lamp  lighted 
within,  into  a  shadow  screen  upon  which  two 
figures  moved.  When  Gaunt  saw  the  figures, 
which  were  those  of  a  man  and  woman,  he  ceased 
to  be  conscious  of  anything  else.  With  a  fascina 
tion  that  riveted  his  attention,  a  sensation  sickly, 
oppressive,  tinged  with  horror,  a  sort  of  waking 
nightmare  through  which  he  seemed  to  look  as  in 
the  crystal  of  a  dream,  held  him  powerless  to  move. 

The  shadow  shapes  upon  the  wall  moved  in  a 
curious  way;  the  man  advancing,  the  woman 
retreating,  the  distance  between  them  getting 
shorter  and  shorter  as  in  some  fantastic  dance  of 
slow  and  measured  step,  the  one  pursued,  the  other 
evaded.  Suddenly  the  man's  hand  shot  out  and 
closed  around  the  woman's  throat  and  the  two 
bodies  swayed  and  writhed,  striking  the  table  and 
extinguishing  the  lamp.  Then  from  the  tent  rose 
a  single  cry,  hopeless,  terrible,  that  pierced  the 
silence  as  a  sword  thrusts  through  flesh.  It  seemed 
to  shudder  out  and  be  lost  in  the  desert  beneath 
the  glare  of  the  moon  and  the  white  light  of  the 
pitiless  stars.  Then  silence,  calm,  tremendous, 
vast,  took  possession  of  the  night. 

Harold  Gaunt,  running,  stumbling,  reached  the 
door  of  the  tent.  His  heart  beat  thickly  in  his  ears, 
his  mouth  was  parched.  With  hands  that  would 
hardly  obey  him,  he  tore  back  the  door  of  the  tent. 

[205] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


The  moon  shone  in  and  by  its  light  Gaunt  moved 
to  what  lay  on  the  floor.  With  a  desperate  effort 
of  will  he  bent  down  and  looked.  After  a  moment, 
he  got  up  violently.  "Come  out,"  he  called,  in  a 
voice  that  was  shattered  by  tearing  sobs.  "Let 
me  get  to  you!" 

The  silence  between  Gaunt  and  the  other  inhabi 
tant  of  the  tent  was  long.  Presently  it  was  broken 
by  a  sound  that  was  faint  and  yet  was  like  agony 
made  audible.  It  was  a  whispering  voice  as  dry  as 
the  sound  of  the  palm  leaves  moving  in  the  wind. 

"How  often  has  she  come  to  you?" 

"She— Good  God,  never!" 

"Don't  lie — are  you  a  man?    Come  nearer." 

"But,  you  brute,  you  fiend;  she  cared  nothing 
for  me." 

The  whispering  voice  went  on. 

"I  saw  you  that  time  on  the  moor." 

"But  that — Oh  God!  I  asked  her  to,  and  she 
was  sorry  for  me  because  she  knew  that  I  cared 
while  she  cared  for  you — you — and  you  would  not 
see  it.  You  had  her  love — and  you  wouldn't  take 
it — you  didn't  know — !" 

From  the  blackness  in  which  he  had  stood,  and 
that  was  like  the  blackness  of  an  abyss,  Mclvor 
stepped  forward.  The  moonlight  lit  up  his  face, 
but  it  was  ghastly,  old,  the  face  of  a  stranger.  His 
eyes  held  Gaunt's.  Harold  saw  Mclvor's  features 
alter,  as  his  eyes  read  the  truth  in  Gaunt's  face, 
and  unutterable  sorrow  rushed  forth  visibly  to 
take  possession,  but  he  spoke  in  a  stronger  voice. 

[206] 


THE  GREATER  MYSTERY 


"Will  you  leave  us  now?"  then  with  a  sigh,  pro 
found,  terrible,  he  added,  "I  never  knew  what  her 
love  was!" 

Blinded  by  tears,  Gaunt  rushed  from  the  tent 
and  threw  himself  down  on  the  sand  beside  the 
pool  into  which  Viola  had  looked.  There  were 
sounds  in  his  ears  that  clamored  like  voices 
shouting  "Murder." 

He  could  not  think,  but  his  nature  seemed  to 
have  freed  itself  and  to  be  the  companion  for  the 
moment  of  the  dead  woman.  He  seemed  to  see 
her  standing  alone  in  the  twilight  that  lay  over 
illimitable  space.  And  in  this  vast  space,  she  was 
alone,  watching,  waiting  for  something  she  had 
never  known  and  without  which  she  must  always 
be  desolate,  abandoned. 

From  the  tent  the  report  of  a  pistol  rang  out. 

Voices  of  men  from  the  camp  were  heard  as  they 
ran  toward  the  tent.  A  dog  lifted  its  voice  in  a 
shrill  and  melancholy  howl. 

But  Harold  Gaunt  got  suddenly  to  his  feet. 
Upon  his  face  was  an  expression  of  supreme 
happiness  that  was  like  a  reflection  caught  from 
some  unearthly  vision.  In  the  far  distance  in 
which  for  a  moment  he  glimpsed  Viola,  Gaunt 
saw  that  now  she  was  no  longer  alone. 

Love  had  transcended  life  and  death. 

THE     END 


[207] 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN     INITIAL     FINE     OF    25     CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


JUL   21  1S33 


1935 


LD  21-50m-l,'3 


4387 


, 

UF 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


